The Lock
by Imogen74
Summary: Companion piece to "The Key," this story follows the same timeline as The Key, but the Jon Snow/Sansa Stark narrative. Expect some Tynaerys, and a ton of angst. Not much Tyrion, so not many jokes. Jonsa. For JaninaM8...
1. Chapter 1

The snow was still falling as the shouts died down.

The room seemed to sting with the noise waste…it was chiming in his ears.

He looked around, then sat, moved and humbled beyond thought. He had just been declared the King. The King of the North, just as his father was…just as Robb.

Jon Snow looked at Sansa. She held a ghost of a smile on her face. As soon as he attempted to return it, she looked away.

He swallowed, and looked at Lyanna Mormont, who was holding his gaze. She nodded.

…and he looked around the room. "Thank you," he said. "I haven't the proper words to fully express how much this means to me. I hope to serve you well," and he stood once more. "We will face the winter together."

They all cheered, and there was merriment.

Likely the last of it in some time.

Jon Snow sighed. He looked around once more, then left the hall. He had no desire to speak to anyone…

"Where are you off to, Your Grace?"

He turned and saw Little Finger smiling at him. "I'm going to bed."

"Ah, but now? Now, when the whole of the North is chanting your name?" he shook his head and approached him. "This is unwise, King Snow. You should stay and speak with the houses. They desire your reassurance."

"I'm not one for words," he narrowed his eyes. "Why do you care?"

"Because it is in my interest to care."

"How?"

"Do I need to spell it out for you?"

"Please."

Little Finger sighed. "Well, as it happens, I care very much for your family."

"You care for yourself," Jon spat.

"That too, but I care for the Starks. You are a Stark."

"I'm a bastard."

"With Stark blood."

Jon sighed. "I don't want to hear anything from you, Balish. Stay away from me, stay away from my sister," and he turned once more.

"I helped you ascend to that position they just named you to. Never forget that."

Jon didn't look back, didn't respond.

His heart and his mind were troubled, and he required silence.

Along dark passageways he strode, his mind fixed on one thing, and it wasn't the fact that he was just named King.

Though, he thought, it probably should be.

It wasn't the fact that he had been accosted by Little Finger.

The wretch, he really despised him.

Nor was it the monsters who were lurking beyond the Wall.

It was the fact that Sansa hardly seemed to be pleased with the houses naming him King, and why it was bothering him.

It was the fact that on occasion, over the past few months, he had discovered decidedly un-brotherly impulses toward Sansa. He had been able to ignore them, for the most part.

It was becoming more difficult.

He reached his rooms and closed the door.

He sighed. This was not to be borne! How could he have developed an attraction to his own sister!

Jon rubbed his face and sat on the edge of the bed. He took his furs off and went to the window. He desired repose, but as he had discovered as of late, his sleep was marred by dreams of his sister, doing very unsisterly things to him.

He avoided sleep, and tried to concentrate on the Wights.

As a result, he was exhausted most of the time. Irritable. Jumpy.

And Little Finger was there…the man who sold her to Ramsay Bolton.

Jon looked out into the vast white of Westeros…it was peaceful, and deadly quiet.

A marked distinction from the screaming raging in his mind… _she is your sister. There is no way that this can happen. Stop thinking about it, you're driving yourself mad._

And he _was_. He felt mad. He felt torn in two.

There were many times in his life he had longed to strip himself of his name.

But never quite so much as now.

The sun had long disappeared behind the hills surrounding Winterfell, he knew, because he saw it fall.

Because he couldn't sleep… or he _wouldn't_ sleep because sleep meant Sansa.

He swallowed and stood. Perhaps he ought to walk about.

Jon left and shoved his hands in the pockets of the pants he still wore. His head was down, and he concentrated on the cold stone beneath his feet.

"Jon?"

He started, and there was Sansa, a few feet away from him. "Sansa? Are you all right?"

She shrugged and smirked. "I couldn't sleep."

"No. Neither could I."

She hesitated, then said, "Would you like to walk a bit together?"

He swallowed, nodded, and met her. His nerves were wringing his mind, though he reminded himself that he shouldn't be nervous. She was only Sansa, his sister. "That was a successful meeting, wouldn't you say?"

She laughed. "Yes. I'd say so."

He looked at her, and couldn't help but smile in return. "What?"

"Well, it's just that you're always expecting to be disappointed," as she fell into step with him.

"Am I?"

"You're as glum as they come, Jon Snow," she laughed.

He shrugged, not shedding his smile. "I guess I linger long in the sad bits of life."

"But it isn't all sad, is it?"

His face fell, and he swallowed. "No. Not all."

"Good," though her voice held a choke, and he looked at her as she cleared her throat.

"Is it? You don't seem sure," they rounded a bend, and at the end of the hall, a large window stood, offering a vantage point from which to see the many of the hills. There was a soft, eerie moonlight feathering in from the window, and the chill felt quite deep…it seeped in, through the dark air of Winterfell. Jon went to the window and peered out, his breath misting the glass as he did.

"I'm not sure of anything anymore, Jon," her voice came from behind him.

"No. I don't imagine that you do."

"Look at me."

He turned, and looked at her face…striking features against the deep red of her hair…she was lovely in the moonlight. "I see you."

"You're the only one then. I've been invisible for so long. Invisible," she went on. "Or else desperately trying to be something else."

Jon nodded, and approached her. "You only need to be yourself, Sansa. I know…that is," his eyes fell. "I know we were never close, and that you don't think I can protect you. But I promise, I'll do everything I can to make sure nothing happens to you that you don't want. Ever."

"Thank you. I believe that you'll try," and she pecked his cheek.

Sansa turned away and left him there.

And there he stood, for how long, he knew not.

Because Jon Snow realized something with that tiniest of kisses…he realized that he was no better than the Lannister's…and that enraged him…

Lannister siblings who fucked each other…claimed to love one another…

His chin went up, and he began taking long strides back to his room.

He needn't claim anything. The fact was burned into the very marrow of his bones.

He was in love with his sister.


	2. Chapter 2

It was best that he avoid her, he thought. Avoid her…

Jon Snow was sitting up in bed, his eyes glazed over, trying to stop the incessant pounding in his brain from lack of sleep.

It wasn't working.

Jon got up and pulled his clothes on. The sun was up now, though the light was dim.

He sighed and headed downstairs. He walked with purpose, though he had no destination in mind. He grunted at a guardsman, then grimaced at a handmaid.

Then he stopped himself, thinking that he was being unduly severe on these people…none of them were at fault for his love for his sister.

Jon reached the map room, thought about it again, and decided to get some air. He put his furs on and went to the front gates, pushing them open himself. The hills beyond, holding Winterfell in a soft cradle, were slowly being covered in snow. There was a white glow to the air, and it held moisture from the constant falling snow; before long, the road would be treacherous. It was fortunate that the houses met the night before, for he wasn't certain if there would have been another opportunity to meet.

He kicked a stone in his path and walked away from the castle.

There was something wrong with him, he was sure of it.

Perhaps it was because he was a bastard.

Jon drew a deep breath. The winter would be long, he could tell. He hadn't known a long winter…

"My Lord!"

He turned. "What is it?" Tim, Winterfell's game keeper, was heading toward him.

"A crow! From the citadel!"

He went over and took the small parchment from the man.

Sam.

He unrolled it…

 _Jon,_

 _There is word from King's Landing that the Targaryen princess will be landing. No one knows when, though I would imagine that you'll be hearing soon that she's there. There will be a changing of the guard, Jon. You need to be prepared and warn whoever sits on the Iron Throne that there is a bigger war ahead._

 _Hope you're well,_

 _Sam_

Jon stuffed the letter into his pocket. Targaryen Princess.

Just what Westeros needed…another Targaryen.

He walked to the Weirwood Tree in an attempt to find some solace. It was hovering in its glen, red leaves being peppered with white snow. It was lovely.

"I come here to feel closer to the land."

Jon turned to see Sansa right behind him. "I don't come here often," he admitted.

"You should," and she passed him, standing right in front of the tree now, looking up at it. "It's a peaceful place, and you seldom are in peaceful places," that remark was laden with meaning, and she did not look at him.

"Perhaps you are right," he swallowed. "You were always smarter than me, Sansa. I only ever acted on impulse…no reason."

Now she turned toward him. "What's happened?"

He smiled softly, for though she had not known him well during their childhood, she knew him well enough now that she sensed something wrong. "Word has come from the citadel. Apparently, a Targaryen princess has set sail for Westeros," he walked toward the tree. "I wish father was here. Or Robb…"

Sansa's breath misted with her exhale. "Anything is better than Cersei, Jon."

"Anything? You've heard stories of the mad King," he looked at her deliberately.

"I have," and her gaze fell.

"Then how can you say that? This princess might be just as mad as her father."

"Or she might not be," she looked at him, and her face had set. "From what I've seen of the world, Jon, I can tell you that it's foolish to think that you understand people. No one ever behaves the way you think that they will, and you can't count on anyone. You're alone. And a Targaryen princess might just be another princess, but what we have now is pretty awful."

Jon shook his head and thought about what must have happened to Sansa to create this hardened view of the world. She had only been vague about it all…"Why won't you tell me, Sansa, what really happened to you?"

He could see the tears welling in her eyes, and she looked at the tree, a derisive smile on her face. "Not here. I don't want to spoil the tree. Let's go back," without a sideways glance, she turned and headed back to Winterfell.

Jon followed her, he didn't fall into step next to her, he just followed along in her wake, Sansa commanding a stride quite different to what he was accustomed to.

They went into the reception room, smallish and dark, with a raging hearth. Sansa sat and took her furs off.

Jon did the same.

He looked at her raptly, but her gaze was on the fire, until she finally sat back. "When I was here, when I was a young girl, I thought that I wanted to be a Queen. I wasn't even certain what that meant, except that a Queen was regal and good. Beautiful," she smiled, now looking at Jon. "And when father told me that I was to go to King's Landing as Joffrey's betrothed, I thought that I was finally living my destiny," she paused, and looked at her lap. Sansa swallowed and shifted. "He was a monster. He hit me, berated me, humiliated me, and I lived in constant fear of him," she appeared to be fighting tears. "And when he took our father's head, he made me look at it, on a spike…and I knew then that I'd die there," her voice cracked.

"Sansa…"

"Don't. Let me finish, at least this part," she took in breath. "I was getting used to the idea of never having my own voice. Of never being able to be who I wanted to be. But that didn't make it easier. I was resigning myself, and doing that makes for a bad taste," she held herself as though she was cold, though the air was warm around the fire. "Finally, Margarey Tyrell came to King's Landing, and Joffrey was taken with her. I became friends with her, but all the while I was hoping that he'd abandon me for her…and I felt terrible for it. To wish that monster on someone!" she wiped her eyes. "Someone who I liked…" she looked at the fore once more. "But it happened that he did, and I thought that I was escaping…I could come home…but no. I was to be married to Tyrion Lannister."

"The imp?" he asked, disbelieving.

"Yes, but he is much more than an imp, Jon. He was the only person, save Margarey and her grandmother, who showed me kindness. We were married, and he treated me with respect and delicacy," she swallowed.

"Did he…?"

"No. And I just told you that he treated me with respect. He didn't love me, Jon, just as I didn't love him."

Jon nodded. "I liked him, when he went to the Wall."

Sansa smiled a touch. "I don't want to talk about it anymore…maybe we can continue tomorrow," she rubbed her brow a bit.

"Why are you telling me this now, Sansa?"

She looked a him. "You said that we needed to trust one another. I'm telling you so that you understand me, and can trust me…"

He looked at the fire. "I guess I should tell you my tale of woe, then."

"Only if you want to."

"I haven't the intrigue that you have, nor the sorrow. But there is something to it," he paused. "I guess it all started when we left to look for Uncle Benjen. He had not come back to the Castle, and everyone was concerned. So, I went, for I was eager to prove myself almost as much as I was intent on finding him. I thought I was clever, Sansa," he looked at her. "But I got myself captured by Wildlings."

Her mouth set itself into a line as he told her this…

"And I still thought I knew what I was doing. Until I became infatuated with Ygritte…a Wildling in every sense. She was daring and true, and she fell for my act as well as I could have hoped," his gaze went to the fire now…"And I fell in love with her," he whispered. "And she and I climbed the Wall…I was getting back to Castle Black, but I was leaving part of myself once I arrived, I knew, for I had given Ygritte a part of me. A part I would never get back. I realized I had changed forever because of her, and that I wasn't the man I thought I was."

"Who are you?"

He looked at Sansa…"I don't know."

"You know, Jon. You just don't want to admit it."

He swallowed. "There's truth in that. But I can't understand the world, or where I fit into it. I never did. And now…"

"Now?"

"Now that we are here, and the Walkers are just beyond…I need to be the man I always wanted to be."

"Maybe you already are. Maybe it isn't so confusing," she offered, then stood. "I know we were never close, Jon. But we have each other now, and we need to fix on that. We are on the same side, and I haven't had someone on my side in so long…" Sansa swallowed. "I'll go see how things are in the kitchens. We have mouths to feed," and she left him there.

He didn't stand. He sat back and thought about what she said. And what he said. Sansa, his sister, had changed so much. Her sorrow had transfixed him, for he saw them now as kindred. And he recognized that as how he had developed his feelings for her. She would understand him as no one would, or could, for her turmoil was their link.

Perhaps he should just tell her. It would ease his mind, at any rate.

No…he thought…that was selfish in the extreme. She was relying on him now, and to change their relationship just when she was acclimating to her changed self would be disastrous. He would suffer as he always did…alone.

Jon stood. What was he _thinking_ , confessing himself to her? He was a madman.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and went to the fire. He could use Melisandre now…

"Your Grace?" came a voice.

Jon turned. "Davos."

"Is everything all right?"

Jon shook himself out of it. "Yes, of course it is. What is it?"

"Well, I heard of the crow from the citadel, and was wondering what the note said."

He cleared his throat. "It spoke of a Targaryen princess making her way across the sea."

Davos was taken aback. "Is it true?"

"I don't know, but I trust Sam."

"And what will that mean for the Walkers?"

Jon looked at him. "I hope it means that should she overtake Cersei, she will come North with her armies and the other Northern Armies to fight."

Davos nodded, then turned toward the window. "You will need to go there. You'll need to present yourself to the Queen, if what you say is true."

"That's all? That's all you have to say on the matter?"

Davos appeared to start to say something, but it caught in his throat. "Everything is changed. The Walkers have done that. Nothing is as it seems, Your Grace. Surely you see that."

Jon nodded. "I do," and in more ways than that, he thought.

"Whether this Queen is a true leader is not known. Stannis wasn't," he looked at Jon steadily. "But I believe that you are. And should Westeros fall into disarray, I would look to you to steady her."

Jon swallowed. "I am no King of the Realm."

"With respect, Your Highness, you may need to be," Davos bowed, then left.

And Jon was there, feeling the cold itch his toes, wishing that so much was different.

Wishing that Sansa was there to assuage his doubt…


	3. Chapter 3

There had been times when he thought that what he wanted was acceptance. And he did, that wasn't a question.

But what he wanted was peace, and he knew that he would be denied that…mostly because he was a ghost.

Apt, then, that he named his direwolf such.

He felt as though he didn't belong in the world any longer. He felt more than lost, it was an hollow he felt in his core. He was not of the world…

Jon Snow still heard the sound of Davos's words… _you may need to be_. He never had any say in anything. He was forever entrenched in a game he didn't understand, nor aware, even, that he was playing.

Until now.

Anger brimmed in his heart, for he was tired of being a pawn in this game between players he couldn't see.

He did not need to be anything except Jon Snow, though he was doubtful that he knew who what was anymore. Not that he ever really knew to begin with.

He sighed heavily and looked out of the window.

It was unfortunate that the snow was so thick at that moment that he couldn't see much beyond. He turned and left for the dining hall. He was uncertain what he would do there, but he thought that being there would be better at that moment than being anywhere else. There would likely be many people there whom he could forget his predicament with.

Well, his many predicaments.

He walked into the hall, and sure enough, many of the men were there, eating the many hours before supper would be served to the Starks.

He nodded at a few, and he grabbed some ale from the table, and sat down.

There was a quiet that fell then.

Jon looked around at them all, and took a long draught. "Can't a man sit at his table and drink?"

"They can, Your Grace," said a larger soldier. "But they don't sit with their soldiers, usually."

"Well this man does," he looked at them all. "Eat!" he yelled.

There were mutterings and they looked at one another, but they soon ignored the fact that the King of the North was sitting with them.

Jon nodded to himself and examined the table in front of him.

He then felt someone touch his shoulder, and he turned.

Sansa.

He smiled at her involuntarily. "Where did you come from?"

"Just there," she smiled, and pulled her hand away, nodding in the direction of the library. "I thought we could talk."

His gaze lowered a touch, but he nodded, and stood. "You first," he held his hand out to her, and she smiled.

Jon followed her to the library, where a fire roared.

"Sit," Sansa instructed. "Would you like for me to get something for you to drink?"

"No," he replied, sitting down. "I just had some ale."

She nodded, then sat across from him. "I was thinking that I might continue my story," she paused. "From earlier."

"All right," his face etched concern. "I thought that you'd need a longer break…"

"I'd rather just get to over with. If the gods are good, I'll be done by supper. And you can finish your tale as well," Sansa drew a deep breath. "I believe the last I talked about was my betrothal to Tyrion."

"Yes. I think that's right."

She nodded. "Well, there was a ceremony, of course. It was nothing grand, really, but pleasant enough. Tyrion got drunk…"

Jon looked at her concernedly.

"No, he was always drunk," she laughed at touch. "And when we went to the marriage bed, he wouldn't have it. He slept on the chair, and continued to take his rest there for the entirety of our relationship. He was a confidant and a friend. I trusted him above all else while I was there," she paused, and looked at the fire. "We became close, especially after Joffrey and Margarey were engaged. I was fearful for her," Sansa cleared her throat. "The day of their wedding, there was a great feast. It was there that Joffrey humiliated Tyrion, and then drank poison, killing him dead."

"You saw it?"

"Not all. I was whisked away to a ship, where Littlefinger waited for me."

He nodded. "He wanted you to be in his debt."

"I'm not sure what he wanted then. But he took me to the Eyrie. There, Aunt Lysa, mad with jealousy for me, tormented me in her own way."

"Why was she jealous?"

"Because she saw what I didn't. Petyr Baelish desired me the way he desired mother. And he killed her, Jon."

His jaw fell.

"I was there. He killed her…and when he took me away, he brought me here, and to Ramsay Bolton, promising that he'd return for me…" she swallowed. "And I believed him. It was the last time I'd ever make that mistake," Sansa sat back in the chair. "Now, this is the part of the tale that broke me. And I became reborn, never to be Sansa Stark as you had known her again. You know that Ramsay beat me. But he also raped me. Kept me prisoner in my room…he made me watch him rape other women. He had Theon Greyjoy watch him rape me my wedding night. I know it sounds mad to hear that a husband can rape his wife, but I came to understand it such. I never consented…there was no love. I despaired as days bled into weeks and into months. I knew I had to escape…and I did not even care if I should die, for I was dead already."

"Sansa…" his hand had partially moved toward her in an effort to relieve the pain she was obviously in. He swallowed, and dropped his hand…"I wish I could have helped you."

"I'm broken, Jon. But I'm not dead. Escaping spared me that. And I can't ever be the same. Not ever."

"No."

She smiled somewhat weakly at him.

He tore his eyes from her face. "I know what it's like to be dead, Sansa."

"Yes…"

He sat back, clearing his throat. "I went to help the Wildlings, for I knew of the horrors of the North…of the things that they feared and that they only wanted to live. But the Night's Watch disagreed with my beliefs. They thought that my concerns should be limited to the oath that I made, and that the Wildlings was not part of that oath," he looked at her. "But I cared for them, Sansa. Not only had I loved one, I had lived among them, and they had welcomed me. And I had betrayed them. The Watch thought that I betrayed _them,_ " he sighed, and ran his hand through his hair as he put his elbows on his knees. "It was inevitable, I guess…an attempt on my life."

Sansa's gaze fell.

"They all were waiting for me in the Square. It was snowing as it is now…steady, but light," he looked at the white glow outside of the window. "And they took their turn shoving their blades into my belly, proclaiming it was for the Watch…" there was a soft silence that fell after this. Neither seemed to be breathing. The crackling of the fire was the only discernible sound. "I laid there, bleeding, dying…and what I saw was nothing. Darkness slowly took my vision…it was like I was flying in the space between the stars. It was as though I had taken flight from the earth, and I felt no pain, and there was only the cold air blowing past me as I flew to the dark."

"Dark?" she whispered.

"That's all I saw, Sansa."

"Were you aware of it?"

"No. Not in the way that I am aware of you, sitting there. It's almost like…like I was aware of it after it happened."

She nodded. "And then?"

"Then I saw my body on that table through Ghost's eyes…it was as though for a moment, I was Ghost. But not for long…for as soon as everyone left that room, I was jolted into my body."

She shook her head.

"So you see, when I was reborn, I wasn't the same…how could I be? I was a ghost. I had lost myself. But it's like I always knew something like this would happen…" he swallowed. "And we are not that different anymore."

"No. We both were killed, Jon. And no one who has died can ever be the same."

And though that statement did not, in an of itself, make much sense, it did to him, and he nodded.

Sansa smiled at him…a genuine smile…warm. "Now you know me better than anyone. Do you think that you can trust me?"

He smirked a bit. "Perhaps. But I'll be on my guard."

"That's fair," and she turned toward the fire. "What were you doing in the dining hall?"

"Sitting with the men."

"You are a funny man, Jon Snow. Not many Kings sit with their men," she looked at him. "But, you aren't like many Kings."

"I hope not."

At that, a messenger came running in from the hall…"Ser! My Lady! A crow, from Castle Black!"

They both stood, and Jon took the parchment. He read through it quickly. "The Wall is being invaded…every night they hear the screams in the wood of the Night's Armies."

"But it's invaded already?"

"No," he handed her the paper. "But it will be. They sent scouts out to determine the distance of the armies…only one came back, and said that they were a week out…" Jon got a quill and scribbled a note, handing it to the messenger. "Send this now," he turned to Sansa. "We can't wait for the Targaryen…we need to alert the Northern houses that they need to begin preparations now."

"Yes…but there need not be a war without King's Landing being settled. Don't you think it's wise to wait for…"

"…how can we wait?" he demanded. "The armies are advancing. They are gaining soldiers with every person that they kill. You haven't seen them, Sansa. This is no game."

"If I've learned anything, it's that it's all a game."

"Not this," he growled, and he began to leave.

"I know…" she said, her voice raised. "That you think I'm wrong. But this Night King wants something. Everyone wants something, Jon. And if you find out what it is…"

He turned and walked toward her. "He wants us all dead, in his army," he glared at her. "There is no _time_. We need to act."

Sansa grabbed his arm, and he felt electricity shoot through him. "You are always acting on impulse. You admitted it yourself. Let me reign you in. I can be the one who checks you…"

He was staring at her mouth…and he suddenly did not feel so sure of himself. He nodded. "What do you propose?"

She dropped his arm. "We wait for King's Landing for a few days. If Cersei remains on the throne, we act. If it is the Targaryen, we visit her with plans."

"Seems reasonable."

"It is," she smirked. "And all I ask is for a little bit of reason," Sansa turned and after she nodded, left him.

She wants to reign him in.

Check him…

He swallowed and steadied himself on the back of the chair.

She had humbled him swiftly…

And he hadn't minded a bit.


	4. Chapter 4

So, they would wait for King's Landing.

It was not in his nature to be patient.

Jon swallowed as he recovered from Sansa's speech…she was a formidable opponent in matters of discourse, and she understood him better than he had thought. Unsurprising, really, if he thought about it at all. He had grown so close to her recently…

…too close, if he was honest.

He placed a finger on the back of the chair she had sat on and closed his eyes.

"My Lord."

He turned. "Davos," he said. "You have developed a knack for finding me off guard."

"You'll pardon me, but I just saw the Lady Sansa. She appeared to be in a bit of a state…"

"She was?" and he turned fully toward him. "What do you mean?"

"There was word…from the Wall?"

Jon nodded.

"What did the report?"

"There are ever encroaching armies from the North."

"That must have been it, then," and Davos walked over to the window and peered out. "No one is easy now that this is happening. What are your plans?"

"The plan, as Sansa and I discussed, is to wait for word from King's Landing."

Davos appeared to be shocked. "Wait? Until we're all in the Night's Army?"

"No. Wait to see what the Targaryen princess can offer as Queen, should she overthrow Cersei."

There was no response. Davos shook his head, and with a bow, left the room.

Jon sighed. He supposed that as a King, he would encounter many who disagreed with him, and he would need to defend positions that he did not always fully support. This one, for example.

More pressing than anything was the need for warmth. He would have to think about getting some of the forces out to harvest wood for the many northern hearths.

He left the room to speak to the generals about this, knowing that he was only delaying the confrontation he was sure to have concerning the Night's Army.

* * *

He had managed to avoid Sansa and her beguiling face for the rest of the day, into the night…and now he found himself in the manner he normally found himself in these nights…

Awake.

He got up and roamed the halls as was his custom. He wound his way through the endless halls of Winterfell, the place as dark as the outside, despite the torch light. Gloomy though it was, nothing was as bleak as the prospect of an invasion by the Night Army.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around himself. The effort was futile.

And he thought about Sansa, and everything she had related to him. It was incredible to him that she had survived so much; she was a far cry from the girl he remembered growing up with.

And that was it, wasn't it?

He rounded a corner and heard someone talking.

"I 'eard that 'e's gonna _wait._ Wha' for? 'Till we're all _dead_?"

He stopped…they were talking about him.

"If Ned Stark was still 'round, 'e wouldn't _wait_."

"Naw. We'd already be at dat Wall."

Jon swallowed. There was something to what they were saying. He turned, not wanting to engage…

Had he let his feelings override his logic?

He smiled to himself. Of course he did. He _always_ did. He allowed his attraction for his sister dictate how he behaved.

To his sister, for god's sake.

He threw the door open to his room and slammed it shut. He should leave. He would never be Ned. Never be Rob. No one should follow him, for he was not to be trusted. He was in love with his own sister, and his mind was easily convinced that he was making the wrong decision.

He flopped on the bed and sighed.

What a mess.

And it was all his fault.

* * *

The morning dim was slow to grow. Somehow, he had fallen asleep and the morning's slow emergence jolted him a touch. He hadn't realized he had slept.

Jon rose and rubbed his face. He had not recalled any dream, which was a blessing. He hated when he remembered dreams.

He got up and pulled some day clothes on, then went over to the window, looking out into the grey expanse.

Perhaps he needed to speak to Sansa more, discuss her position on the interference of the Targaryen princess. Was this really the best answer to the quandary set before them?

He nodded, ignoring his body's reaction to the thought of seeking Sansa out. Also ignoring the idea that there was more to his desire than policy.

He would be speaking to her with the notion that she needed to fully convince him that waiting was right. That he had been hasty. That she may have some good ideas, but that any advice a King receives should be met with scrutiny.

He nodded and left his room.

It all made perfect sense in his mind, and he thought that certainly Sansa would agree that as a King, he needed to make decisions with some care.

He strode down the hall with purpose, ignited with the decision he had made.

Jon found Sansa's room with ease (unsurprising, considering how often he dwelt on that door), and knocked three times.

There was no answer, nor was there any movement heard…

…perhaps she was already out and about.

He turned to leave, when he heard the door open slightly.

"Jon?" came Sansa's voice.

He turned, and saw her peering through the crack she had opened in the door.

He cleared his throat. "Sansa, I wanted to speak…" he stopped. "I'm sorry, were you still sleeping?"

She appeared to be a bit pale, she shook her head…"No…but I wasn't yet up. I'm not feeling well."

He went to her. "Shall I fetch a Maester?"

She smiled weakly. "No…I merely need to rest," she began to close the door.

But Jon impeded her action, and placed his hand on it. "I'll go to the kitchens and get you some broth. Will that help?"

She appeared to want to appease him, so she nodded, then pushed the door closed.

He went to the kitchen and told the ladies there to spoon out two bowls of whatever they had that was warm.

Jon knew that he shouldn't be worried. And he wasn't…not really. But if she was ill, it would be difficult to find a Maester, since the road was getting worse, and there was potential upheaval in King's Landing.

The North was always scarce when it came to capable Maesters.

This, he lamented, and was one of the more practical reasons he was angry with Ned Stark.

The bowls arrived, and Jon hurried them to Sansa's rooms…

The door was now open, and Sansa was sitting on the edge of her bed, robe drawn in a tight wrap around her. She looked at Jon as he entered, and smiled. "There is no emergency, Jon. I think I have a cold," she reached for the bowl and sipped as he pulled a chair and sat across from her.

"Though I am glad for it, best not to take chances. You should rest the day."

"What little there is of it," she observed, looking out of the window.

He chuckled, and sipped as well. "Darkness will be here before we can appreciate the sun today."

She nodded, sipped some more, then stopped…"Why were you looking for me?"

He swallowed, remembering why he had sought her out. "I…thought we might discuss the plan you had brought up yesterday."

"What about it?"

"Well…" he suddenly didn't want to upset her. "It is difficult for me, to…not act immediately."

Her smile went crooked.

"And I guess I wanted to hear more of your reasoning behind waiting. It all happened very fast."

"More help is always something we could use, isn't it?"

"There's no guarantee that King's Landing, whoever sits on the Throne, will help us."

"That's true. But who's to say the Targaryen won't help?"

He sighed. "Is it worth the wait, Sansa?"

"That's for you to decide," and she finished the bowl.

And memories of the men talking last night filled his mind. "It's not in my nature to wait."

"No. It's in your nature to brood."

He smiled at her. "How did you get to know me so well? We hardly spoke as children."

"It wasn't difficult to figure out, Jon," and she returned his smile.

"Am I that obvious?"

She shrugged. "To me, now, I suppose you are."

He looked at her a moment…her alabaster skin supple and flush with slight fever. He allowed himself this luxury of subtle examination, for he seldom did, and he felt emboldened somehow.

She blanched under his close scrutiny, and her gaze fell. She played with the hem of her blanket.

Jon cleared his throat. "Was there anything else you needed?"

"Are you leaving?" she looked at him again.

"Well, you need to rest."

Sansa shook her head. "It'd be lonesome to be here all day without any company…"

And part of him, in that moment, felt that she was being suggestive, even if slightly. He desperately wanted to stay, but he was also hesitant, for he fretted over this attraction almost as much as he agonized over his status as bastard. "I'll stay. If only a little while."

Her smile grew wide. "Make yourself comfortable, then."

He nodded, and his heart leapt at her smile. "What would you like to talk about?"

"What if you read to me?"

His heart then sped…he was no reader. He _could_ read, but it wasn't something he would do out of choice, ordinarily. His gaze fell, and he looked at the floor. "I…"

"I'm reading…" she began, taking a book from her bedside table. "This. About the wars of the North. There is much in it I think you'll like…" Sansa handed him the tome, frayed in parts as it was…

…and he took it. "Great Battles and Great Loves of the North," he read, then looked at her and rolled his eyes. " _Great loves,_ Sansa? What interest does that have for me?"

She laughed. "But this is about me, isn't it?"

He smiled awkwardly and shrugged. "It is."

"Then read. I left a marker where I stopped last night."

Jon Snow opened the book…there were drawings on the pages, some were very elaborate, beautiful, even. He touched the page where a picture of a man on a white horse stood atop a hill rise, a lady at the base, looking up at him. "This seems to be all right, I guess."

Sansa laughed. "It's something I'd look at as a child, and now, as a grown woman, I find it interesting to return to it with older eyes…"

He watched her intently as she said this, and a thought, unbidden, emerged in his imagination…"How will you see the pictures, if I'm here?"

Her smile faded, and her eyes fell.

 _That was it_ , he thought. _I've ruined it._

But she slid toward the middle of the bed, allowing him room to sit next to her.

It would be torturous to do it, but at that point, he did not care. Jon got up and sat on the bed, swung his legs up, and opened the book. He sat on top of the blankets, while Sansa was under them.

"Nary a day went by that I did not think of her," he began, and to his dismay, Sansa laid her head on his shoulder. He cleared his throat, "But I needed to go ever northward, and she would have to wait…"

They went on like this for well over an hour, when Jon noticed her steady breath on his neck.

She had fallen asleep.

He put the marker back in the book and closed it softly. His head fell back on the headboard as he laid in quiet agony with his sister in a heavy sleep by his side.

His arousal had stirred with her every movement…her hand was clenching his shirt tightly…and his own breath quickened as he attempted to regain himself.

Jon closed his eyes. He could feel her breasts moving against him as she slept, and it nearly drove him from his mind. He longed to kiss her, to push her back into her bed and feel her beneath him…

And still more did he stir…his eyes opened and he thought he must leave. He had to get out of there and take care of himself.

Jon began to move his legs from the bed, but Sansa would not yield his arm. He rolled his eyes, and began his attempt at prying her fingers off.

Sansa muttered in her sleep in protest.

It would not do. "Sansa," he whispered. "I need to get up."

She didn't answer him, except to hold tighter.

"Sansa…" and he touched her fingers.

His face was very close to her own…

…and before he knew what was happening, she had raised her mouth to his.

He froze as their lips touched.

He was mostly on the bed, holding her hand, his mouth barely on hers, and his arousal screaming…

He couldn't help himself, he kissed her.

And he let go of her hand, placing his own at the base of her back, pulling her closer.

He pressed his erection into her thigh and nearly moaned into her mouth as he opened his, gaining access to her tongue…

And then he stopped.

Sansa had hardly moved, and he felt like a miscreant, taking advantage of her in her state, her own brother…

He pulled away and looked at her face.

She registered no awareness, and smiled at nothing.

…and he got up immediately, fraught and overcome with emotion…

He left the room in haste, as though he had committed the very worst of crimes, and went back to his own quiet chamber to rid himself of her scent on his clothes.


	5. Chapter 5

Her head hurt and she felt achy all over. Her eyes felt odd as they opened slowly…

It was freezing in her rooms and she pulled the blanket closer.

Sansa looked around her, and then saw the book she had beed reading on the bed by her legs.

…and she remembered Jon reading to her. And how she had suggested that he lay next to her as he read.

She blushed.

Sansa had been in a state of utter confusion since they had settled at Winterfell.

Her mind was telling her one thing…that she needed to keep a clear head. She had been brutalized and mortified, and she wasn't going to allow anything like that to ever happen to her again.

But it felt so good to be _home_. To feel, even marginally, safe.

And she did…she felt as though things would finally start to get better, no matter what was beyond the Wall.

She sniffed and wished that her feet were warmer.

She hadn't given much thought to Jon, really. She had been so preoccupied with her own things…it wasn't until fairly recently that she thought of him as someone who might also need some help.

Jon was always very dramatic, in her opinion. His tendency to perseverate on his parentage was equal parts annoying and absurd. The only one who cared about his parents was him, as far as Sansa was concerned. Well, at least now, that was so.

She rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling.

If she was being honest, she would tell herself that the closeness she was experiencing with her half brother was growing in her mind in importance. He had become her confidant and her friend, and with some massaging, they could become fine rulers in the North.

She rather felt that Jon was unconvinced of her abilities as an effective ruler. Maybe she was less than convinced, also, in her preparedness.

…and if she was being very honest, she recognized the occasional look he would give her. The lingering glance on her neck…

Sansa closed her eyes and shook the image from her thoughts. It would not do to even imagine that he was looking at her in that way.

She sighed. She must just be recovering from everything that had happened to her. She had thought that watching Ramsay die would be enough. Perhaps she was wrong.

She should probably get up. She felt stiff from being in bed in a heavy sleep.

She sat up and shifted so that her feet hit the stone, cold floor.

And something made her think of Jon…and what had transpired while he was there, she reflected…

Sansa swallowed. She closed her eyes. If she wasn't lying to herself, she could also recall the blush she felt at his steady stare.

Well, he had been looking at her, pretty deliberately. That must have been what made her self aware.

She was tired of being examined. A few years ago she probably wouldn't have minded so much, but that was a couple of years ago. Before she was brutalized by several men. Before she watched her father die…

And she chalked it up to that, then. Jon was eyeing her because she was being looked to to set an example. He was lost when it came to propriety, and he needed guidance. This was rather irritating, but she supposed that it was to be expected. At least somewhat.

And he had suffered, too. He needed someone as well. She could be that for him.

The floor was so cold that it almost pained her feet to stand. She wrapped her bedclothes tighter, in vain she knew, to stave off the chill. Sansa walked delicately to her table where the water basin was, and dipped her hands into the water, frigid and sick from remaining idle.

At that, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called out.

"My Lady," a handmaid arrived with a bow. "His Grace was wondering if you needed anything to make you comfortable. A Maester can be sent for…"

"No," Sansa smiled, turning toward her. "Can you please just take out some stockings and help me put them on?" She went over to the bed and sat as the maid did as she was told. "Tell me. Was his Grace in good spirits?"

She knelt before the princess and began to roll up the stockings. "Well, as much as can be expected from our King. His is a taciturn personality."

She smiled again and nodded. "That he is."

"Are you feeling better, my lady?" the maid stood.

"I am, thank you. But more rest and perhaps some broth would see me right in the morning."

"As you wish," and the maid left.

Sansa felt her toes warm and stood up again. Perhaps she would seek out her brother and talk to him about …things.

She put a long wrap on and left her room to seek him out.

Winterfell was quite dark, the torches barely offering enough light to make uneasy way through the passages; and though she wasn't positive where Jon might be, she had a good enough guess.

She made her way to the library, sparse as it was, since books were difficult to come by. They were mostly housed at the Citadel.

And there he was, by the fire.

He stood as soon as he saw her, as he appeared to have been taken unawares. "Sansa," he said, swallowing. "You're up."

She entered fully and nodded. "I'm feeling a bit better. A passing malaise."

Jon did not look to be particularly pleased by this news, but smiled slightly. "Sit," and he gestured toward the chair opposite him.

She did and smoothed out her clothes. "Jon, I wanted to speak to you about a very particular thing."

"Hm?"

"Well, we are both alone…we have only one another. I want you to know that you may confide in me about anything which may be bothering you," she looked at him now, and recognized his blanch. "Are you well?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm…talking about…" her brow furrowed. "Well. I mean to say that if something is weighing on your mind, you can speak with me about it."

He shifted.

She swallowed. Whatever this was, it must be a important…"Jon?"

"Your Highness!" a messenger came bursting in. "A letter…from the Citadel! King's Landing has fallen!" he breathed.

Jon stood in a rush and took the tiny parchment.

 _Winterfell…please alert the Northern Houses that King's Landing is no longer in the power of the Lannister House. Queen Daenerys Targaryen has sacked the city and her dragons are tethered to the pits as it begins to rebuild. Snow is on the horizon, and the Dragon Queen is preparing for the winter._

 _The coronation will be in one week's time. All are encouraged to attend, and should make haste for the King's Road is at this time still relatively clear of impediment. It is not believed that will last long._

Jon looked up at Sansa. "It's happened. The Targaryen is Queen, and she is being crowned in a week."

"What does that mean?" she breathed.

"We need to pack," he replied, leaving Sansa there.

She looked out of the window.

It was a sickly grey, and there was a mist covering the land.

* * *

She was hunched on the horse, feeling a headache coming on. They had rode through the night, for King's Landing was, technically, more than a week's ride from Winterfell.

The company was rather small. Jon had told her that there was little chance of real danger, since the weather had turned, and most were seeking shelter. As long as they stayed relatively clear of the mountains and the deep forests, he was certain that they needed a smaller calvary.

She trusted him.

Sansa felt sore all over. She had barely recovered from being sick when they were off, riding for nearly thirty six hours. "Jon!" she called.

He turned at her voice…he was riding a bit ahead of her.

"I need to stop for camp!"

He nodded. "In an hour."

She sighed. Another hour.

Sansa was not exactly certain why he had insisted that she come, but she wasn't sorry he did. It made her feel like he was beginning to regard her as an asset to the throne he inhabited.

* * *

It didn't take too long to set up the camp, since there was not many men. Sansa's own tent was comfortable enough, and situated by the fire to ensure relative warmth. She had arranged her quarters and looked around. Perhaps she should check on things…

She exited her tent and looked around.

The fire was high, rather newly lit, and there was some cooking being done.

She looked around for Jon, but he was no where…"Excuse me," she stopped a guard. "Where is His Grace?"

"Your brother is in his tent, My Lady," he nodded.

Sansa smiled and went over to where the guard had indicated Jon's tent was. She went to open it, and hesitated for a spilt second, then opened it…

…Jon had his back to her. He was standing at the far end of the tent.

And he was taking his clothes off.

She saw the sinews of his back move gracefully with him, his arms pulling his shirt on…And he then went for his pants…

…and she blushed and turned away, hastily closing the tent and walking away from it…

Sansa ran to her own tent and went inside. She was hot with embarrassment…her hands shaking somewhat.

She swallowed and went to the bed in the middle of the space. She sat and thought about what had just happened.

She had seen Jon…no. Her brother…and he was naked.

And it had embarrassed her.

Well, _of course_ it had embarrassed her! She wasn't accustomed to seeing men without clothes on, unless it was Ramsay Bolton.

And that made her sick.

She closed her eyes. She should have coughed to announce her presence. That would have made the most sense; would have been the most logical thing to do, instead of panic. Why in the name of the old gods did she panic?

"Sansa?"

She stood in haste and choked…"Yes?"

"May I come in?"

It was Jon.

"Of course," she smiled, though he wasn't in there yet, and she had no idea why she was smiling.

He entered the tent. "Are you all right? Someone said that you were looking for me."

"Oh yes," Sansa replied sweetly. "I was just wondering about you."

"Oh," and he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Have you washed?"

"Pardon?" her face fell.

"After the long journey," he explained, walking to her bed and sitting down. "I just did."

"Oh yes," and she sat next to him. "I did," she cleared her throat. "The journey, so far, has been difficult."

"Well, just another few days, Sansa. Not much longer."

"But then there's the journey back…"

"Are you dreading that already?" he smiled at her.

She shrugged. "I suppose it's just that I'm recovering from illness and it's been especially trying," she looked at him and saw his visage holding a tender look. "What?" she smiled.

"Nothing…I'm sorry you're unwell and I'm making you travel."

Her smile fell somewhat. "I'm fine."

"I know…" his look was steady, and he brushed a piece of hair from her face. "You are stronger than you appear. Too many have underestimated you, Sansa," and his hand fell, along with his gaze. "Myself among them."

She was transfixed. "Jon, you know that I am not angry at you…?"

"You should be."

"Why?"

"Because everyone you've ever trusted has betrayed you, used you for their own purposes. I'm only now beginning to realize the scope of what that means."

"What does it mean?"

He looked at her once more. "It means…I need to earn your trust," he paused. "And I mean to."


	6. Chapter 6

The King's Road had been arduous, yes, and her back hurt. She was reticent about returning to this place which harbored so many bad memories.

…and the valley into the Keep came into view.

Sansa swallowed. She looked at her brother. He was just behind her, looking down into the city. He had never been here.

"It's nice, in its own way," she said, looking back.

"It means pain to you," he replied.

"It did."

She nudged her horse forward and they galloped down toward the Keep. It was noticeably colder from the last time she had been there. Sansa swallowed…Cersei was dead. Joffrey…dead. The only Lannister's left were Jamie and Tyrion. And they had never hurt her.

She dismounted and held her chin up. She wouldn't allow anything to stop her now.

Not even a Targaryen princess.

She waited for the company to join her as she fiddled with her gloves. She saw Jon glance over as he spoke with some of the men, then he walked to the gate. Sansa hung back, deliberately blending in as best she could.

She watched as the troops and aides walked into the Keep…Winterfell didn't have servants and such by the dozens as the Keep did. And Jon didn't want to bring everyone…the risk was too great that they'd be hurt.

She was shown to a room and Sansa sat down at a desk. The crowning ceremony was to be the next day. She unpacked some things and sighed.

It was going to be a long few days in the Red Keep.

* * *

Sansa didn't see Jon again until the next day, as they had arrived late and she took her supper in her room.

She wanted to look resplendent yet ferocious, and as she smoothed out her skirts, she decided that she looked neither. Her clothes were dark, and she wore a fur around her neck. Her red hair cascaded down her back.

And she thought that Daenerys would want to be the most beautiful in the room, no matter what people had said to her about her own beauty.

Her beauty…

She closed her eyes. Sansa's beauty had been a blessing and a curse. There was much that she liked about her face, but she knew that it would fade, and would rather be cunning.

She aimed to be.

Sansa lifted her chin and opened her door.

How many hours did she spend walking the passageways of the Keep? How many did she spend in quiet horror?

All of that was behind her now. She wouldn't be ill used any longer. She would be strong and brave…smart about her choices…

"Sansa."

She looked up. "Jon," she smiled, a bit breathless. "Are you lost?"

"No. Just biding time."

She nodded. "Well, I believe the ceremony will be starting soon," she folded her hands across her waist.

He shrugged. "That's what I understand."

"Should we make our way, then?"

"Not yet. Might you give me a tour?" he smiled at her. "And I'd like to discuss the issues we are bringing to the Queen."

"With me?"

"Of course with you, Sansa. That's why we're here. Why you insisted upon coming."

She felt foolish for a moment, and her face flushed. "I can give you a tour," and she began to walk to the gardens. They were lovely at the Keep, and though the chill had begun its fall, she didn't think it would all be spoilt.

She was right, though some blooms had perished, and part of the wall containing the garden had fallen. Probably from the battle. "I was happiest here," she touched a violet flower.

"Here?"

Sansa turned and nodded. "Well, while I was held captive, I was happiest in the garden. Tyrion would walk with me occasionally."

"He was kind to you."

She nodded. "Yes he was. I could speak frankly to him when I couldn't with anyone else."

"Sansa?"

"Hm?"

"Were you in love with him?"

"With Tyrion?" she said, confused.

"Yes."

"No…I've never been, Jon. Because I was too young."

He turned away from her, and sat on a stone bench. "I think that we need to be as frank as possible with the Queen, so that she understands the urgency."

"That's wise," she sat next to him.

"We need the reinforcements of the south. We need to make her understand that the entire seven kingdoms are at risk," his voice became elevated.

"We will," she laid her hand on his. "Jon, look at me."

He turned toward her, brow furrowed. "It will be all right."

"What will, Sansa? We likely all will die," and he took his hand back, folded them, and leaned forward, staring at the ground.

"Well, we can only do what we can do…" she longed to comfort him somehow, and so she took her hand, and with some hesitation, placed it on his back. She began to rub circles. "And we will do what we think is best."

"War," he looked up, but not at her.

"If it comes to it."

"Are you prepared for that?"

"Battle?" she took her hand away, and he sat back, looking at her.

"Aye. And not the kind of battle Ramsay Bolton waged. I mean a battle with weapons you've never dreamed of."

She swallowed, and wavered under his gaze. "I…" was she? "I am."

"I won't allow it."

"What?"

"You'll not fight, Sansa."

"I've proven myself…"

"You need to be the Queen if I die. You need to keep the Stark name alive. I'm dispensable…you're not."

And she stood. "How dare you tell me what to do. My entire life. People telling me what to do. And you! You're the King of the North! Do you understand what that means? Do you know what you mean to the North? What you mean to me?" she stopped…she closed her eyes. She hadn't quite realized what Jon meant to her…

…he meant family. And safety. And…

"Sansa."

She opened her eyes, and he was standing in front of her. "What," she looked down.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. But father would never have allowed it…"

"Father's dead," she spat. "I know. I was there," and she turned and walked away.

* * *

Sansa walked into the Hall where there were candles lit and many faces she found familiar. She was still shaking somewhat…

Jon was infuriating! How could he, after everything that she had related to him. She would not let him continue to tell her how to live her life.

"…I heard that the Stark children are here…"

Sansa heard some people sitting ahead of her speaking about her and Jon. She strained her ears.

"I wonder what they want. Why they made the trip down."

"The bastard, Jon Snow…he's likely here to make an offer of marriage."

"To Daenerys?" she sounded shocked.

"Well, if you think about it, they're both royalty now. He was recently named King of the North."

"A bastard King?"

"It's what they've got. Savages, true enough. But I understand he wields a mighty sword…" and there was some laughter.

…and Sansa blushed.

Was it true?

It couldn't possibly be. He would have told her that he meant to marry the Targaryen princess. She swallowed and blanched a bit.

He was the King, though…he made the decisions. She was just…

Who was she?

She looked up and saw Tyrion. His neck was bandaged and he was standing next to Varys. Sansa didn't know Varys well…but he was always lurking about. Her gaze fell…

And she wished that she could speak with Tyrion now about these matters.

"Is this seat taken?"

She looked up and saw Jon, and she eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded and allowed him to sit next to her.

"Are you still cross?" he whispered.

"I wasn't cross to begin with," but she didn't look at him.

"You're still cross," he muttered.

"I'm not."

She heard him sigh. "Well, this looks painfully dull."

"You don't need to stay."

She felt him stiffen. "We need to talk."

"We need," and now she turned toward him. "To watch the Queen make her vows and be crowned."

"Sansa…I only want to keep you safe."

"I understand," and she offered him a ghost of a smile. "But the Queen is coming," and the entire hall stood as Daenerys entered. Sansa stood now and looked at her…

…and by the gods she was lovely. Sansa swallowed as she watched…

Daenerys was in a lovely blue gown, thick and velvet, with gold trimmings…

She looked at her own clothes. She thought of her own face…

…and she looked at Jon, standing next to her watching the ceremony begin as they all sat down.

Were they a good match? Impossible to tell, since she had never met the Queen…

Sansa shifted in her seat as the ceremony went on. The people of King's Landing expected that that was why they were here.

Well, why Jon was here.

Sansa looked up as Daenerys Targaryen was crowned.

If nothing else, it made sense. The Kingdom would be united. That was a desirable thing, she thought. Desirable and necessary in these uncertain times.

…and it was over.

She watched as Queen Daenerys stood with her crown atop her head. She nodded to everyone and then walked out.

"Well. I think there's a meal or something," John said.

"Yes…" she replied, then looked at him. "We should go," Sansa turned and walked out of the hall, following the crowd.

She took a spot in a corner with some wine. She watched as Daenerys spoke with people, watched as some of the dignitaries spoke with Jon. She noticed that he was uncomfortable…

…and she dropped her gaze.

He would need practice.

"These people," he said, taking his place next to her. "Are impossible."

"How do you mean?" she sipped, not looking at him.

"They care about the most ridiculous things."

"Oh?" and now she looked. "What things?"

"What I'm wearing," he shook his head.

Sansa laughed. "Not really."

He looked at her and laughed, too. "Still cross?"

Her smile faded. "I was never cross."

"Sansa…" he admonished.

"I wasn't…I was just…" she sighed. "Frustrated with you."

"I suppose I can be…"

"Impossible? Difficult? Dramatic?" she offered.

He chuckled. "That's a long list."

"It covers about half."

He looked away, the smile still on his face. "Do you think she'll listen to us?"

"She'll have to. I put in a request to see her in private."

"As did I, before we left."

"Oh…" and she swallowed. "Well then…"

"Some are leaving," he observed, looking around.

"I'll be back," she said.

Sansa turned without looking at Jon and walked out of the room.

He had contacted Daenerys before they left. Perhaps he wanted a private counsel with her. She felt her heart beat faster.

Sansa walked to an open window in the hall and breathed deeply. Why was this bothering her so? If Jon wanted to marry her, he had every right to.

Perhaps she was upset at the thought of him leaving her at Winterfell. Perhaps she didn't want to be alone anymore…

Yes. That was it. Even thinking of it in passing made her uneasy.

Alone…she had felt thus for so very long. She was tired of it. There were precious few whom she felt she could trust, and now, the thought of the one who she could leaving her…well. It was no wonder.

Sansa nodded to herself. If Jon wanted to marry her, well…she would support it. It would hurt, but she would survive, just as she had survived everything. Somehow.

"Sansa?"

And she turned.

Jon was standing there, looking at her. "The Queen is waiting for us."

Sansa took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm ready."


	7. Chapter 7

_AN: This scene can be found in The Key, but I'm going to refrain from copying it verbatim. Seems unnecessarily redundant._

 _For JaninaM8's bday. Love you, friend!_

* * *

Sansa walked in behind Jon and looked around. The hearths were lit, and there was a longish table in the center, about eight chairs around it in all. It was dim, and long shadows obscured any real ability to see clearly.

She sat next to her brother and sighed…watched as the Queen took her seat at the head of the table and the Hand sat at the other end.

"Well, King Snow," began Tyrion. "What urgent business brings you here?"

"The Wall, Ser. It's about to be breached," Jon could be very forthright.

"Breached," Tyrion repeated.

"That's right," and Jon looked at the Queen. "The whites are forever approaching…"

"Whites?" and Sansa watched as the Queen gave Tyrion a confused look.

"Perhaps, Jon, we should start further back, so that Her Grace and Ser Lannister might understand better what we mean."

She watched him sigh. "You're right," and he looked at the Queen, then at his lap. "I was on the Night's Watch," he began. "I was never afraid, in fact…I thought that I was doing my duty as a Northerner. Though the life was rough, I enjoyed it. We went beyond the Wall in search of my…" he looked at Sansa. "Our…Uncle," he paused. "There we met up with Wildlings, I got myself captured, and I discovered the truth about the whites. And I was terrified," he swallowed and looked around. "They are on the move. They are trying to come across the Wall…"

"And? What do you think that they want?" Tyrion asked.

Jon looked slowly at him. "They want recruits."

"Pardon?"

"They want more soldiers, and they can get them…"

"People join them?" asked the Queen.

"No, Your Majesty. They die. And the Night King raises them. They become his soldiers."

There was a silence that fell upon the room at that moment…it was deafening and stale. Sansa looked from Tyrion to the Queen. She thought that she should speak up. "I believe my brother, the King, Your Grace. He is not one to utter falsehoods."

"No," but she seemed unconvinced. "Lord Lannister, what is your opinion?"

"Well," Tyrion sat back. "This is all very beguiling, to be sure. And terrifying. But if this story is true, we need to know two things. One, what is their weakness, and two, how did King Snow survive?"

"Dragonglass. Fire. And I survived on pure luck and a determination not to die."

"Very good. We'll tell the soldiers to will themselves to survive, and all will turn out well," Tyrion sardonically replied.

Sansa smirked a touch. "I think my brother understates his ability to slay these whites," she looked at Jon. "Tell them."

Jon was looking steadily at her. "Well…" and he looked around. "I suppose it's true. I have killed them."

"How?" asked the Queen.

"Dragonglass. I hardly knew what was happening, I was just trying to survive, and the next I knew…he was laying dead."

"Who?" Tyrion leaned forward.

"One of their lieutenants. A Wight. They're different."

"How?"

Jon looked at the Queen's Hand. "They're harder to kill."

"Excellent. Wonderful news. And you say they're advancing? How soon before the Wall is compromised?" Tyrion asked.

"I can't say. But I think that the Night's Watch is growing tired. They need help…" he looked at the Queen once more. "Can you help us? The North needs everything you can offer."

Sansa held her breath. She watched as Daenerys Stormborn looked at her Hand. She dropped her gaze.

"You were kind to my sister…" she heard Jon speak, then looked up at him. "You have a good heart, Lord Lannister. I'd thought so when you visited the Wall these few years back. Please."

Sansa looked at Tyrion, and she smiled.

"You know my Hand, Lady Stark?"

Sansa looked at her…"Every time someone calls me that, I think they mean my mother," she paused. "But…that cannot be, can it?" she cleared her throat. "I do, Your Grace. I was here, in King's Landing, some time ago."

"Were you?" the Queen smiled. "And what did you think of it?"

"Not much. But, I had a couple of friends."

"My Hand for one?"

"Yes. We were…"

"Good friends," Tyrion interrupted. "And at such a monstrous time in your young life, I was happy to be there for you," he looked at Sansa with a deliberate eye.

"Of course," she looked at him crookedly, understanding that he did not want for her to divulge more, though she failed to see why.

The Queen cleared her throat. "Well. What are your requests, then?" she looked at Jon.

"We need as many troops as Westeros can afford. We need Dragonglass if you have it. And we need…" he paused. "Your dragons. The smaller whites can be burned."

She didn't immediately respond. "Of course," she said, looking at Tyrion again. "The safety of Westeros is my primary concern. Though I cannot say how they will react to extreme cold…"

"Perhaps all will be well, since they breathe fire," Tyrion said. "Now, King Snow. When do you leave?"

"In two days," said Sansa. She thought that if there were intentions on the part of the Queen, Jon had better stay for a bit to acquaint himself with her.

"Two days?" repeated Jon. "Tomorrow," he looked at Sansa. "We need to return to Winterfell, Sansa. The King's Road will soon be blocked with snow."

She sighed…swallowed, then acquiesced. She wouldn't argue in public. And what's more, she wanted to leave. Winterfell had been denied her for so long. She missed it terribly, just being away from it this past week.

"Well, we should adjourn, then. I will send word when we have plans drawn, King Snow," said the Queen. "My Hand will stay behind," she looked at Tyrion, "So that we might discuss this further."

Sansa looked at Jon then stood. She nodded to Tyrion and the Queen, then turned and left. She didn't bother waiting for Jon, and hurried from the room.

"Sansa!"

She sighed, then stopped.

"What was that about?"

"What was what about?" and she looked at Jon.

"Stay here? In King's Landing? What for?"

"Well…" she didn't want to admit that she was trying to accustom herself to the idea of his being married to the Queen, which she was now convinced would happen. "I simply thought that you might want to stay and speak with Her Majesty further."

"There's nothing more to say."

"No? I'd think that there would be."

"What? She's going to draw plans and attempt to have as many soldiers as Westeros can manage. That's all we need to know," he stepped toward her. "Don't you want to go home?"

She swallowed. "Of course I do."

And Jon took her hand. "Then let's go."

She smiled, nodded, dropped his hand, and went to her rooms. Sansa surmised that after her illness, she had been too liberal with her time and likely needed more rest than she had allowed herself. She got ready and crawled into bed. Yes, she was tired…and the thought of traveling the King's Road for the next week was hardly attractive. She wanted to go home, yes, but being on the back of a horse was a bit…much…to consider at present.

Sansa closed her eyes, and drifted to sleep…

 _She was home. It was summer…she was in the garden surrounding Winterfell._

 _And there was Jon, walking toward her._

 _Sansa waved…the air was sweet and lovely, and Jon was smiling. She felt completely at ease and happy. To be home at its most lovely!_

 _He reached her. "Sansa," he breathed._

 _"Jon…what is it?"_

 _"It's the Queen. She's here to take me to King's Landing. We are to be married in a fortnight."_

 _"Oh…" Sansa swallowed. "You must be happy."_

 _"I am. I never realized just how much I wanted this. It's everything I dreamed of," he kissed her cheek and turned. "You'll visit, won't you?"_

 _"Of course…" but there was something in her throat. She wouldn't be seeing him at Winterfell. She'd need to travel to King's Landing to see him, her brother. The only sibling she had left. "Jon…"_

 _He turned. "Yes?"_

 _"I…" and she hesitated, for there was a pull she couldn't deny, but that she felt she must. She swallowed…."I'll miss you."_

 _"Oh, Sansa…" he pulled her close. "I'll miss you, too."_

 _…and Sansa felt his heart, she felt his arms around her…she felt the warmth of his body…and unbidden, quite, she began to fell something from her depths awaken…_

 _He pulled away too soon._

 _And before she knew it, he was gone._

She opened her eyes, and tears were falling.

* * *

She was standing next to her horse, and the Queen was speaking to Jon. She wasn't paying attention, though…she was preoccupied and silent. Sansa played with her sleeve as she stood there, not looking at anyone.

She heard her name and looked up.

The Queen was smiling at her. "Well, there she is," and she walked over to Sansa. "You are worried about the journey?"

"No, Your Grace."

"Something is bothering you."

"I…" she chanced a glance at Jon, then looked down once more. "I'm anxious to get home," she looked at the Queen, with her violet eyes and white hair…the Queen had a confidence and a grace about her, something that Sansa never had. Either thing, really. "But thank you, Your Majesty, for your concern."

"Well, we will see one another soon enough. I've been in conference with your brother this morning, and it seems that the situation cannot be delayed."

"No," she felt ill at the mention of her brother.

"Safe travels, and many thanks for your counsel with the seamstresses." Sansa had spoken with them that morning about proper attire.

"Not at all," she smiled at her, bowed, then turned and mounted the horse.

She watched as Jon bowed and got on his horse. And dropped her gaze.

He called for the company to begin, and they all followed, Sansa far enough behind.

She was mortified…and desperately wanted to leave…to be anywhere else. But there cannot be much in terms of privacy when one is traveling as she was.

She needed to think. She needed to be by herself and think about what she needed to do. She couldn't abandon her brother! She couldn't leave Winterfell…not when she had only just returned…

"Sansa?"

She started and looked. Jon was next to her. "Jon. You startled me."

"We've been riding some time now. I thought that we should set up camp within the next hour."

"Of course," she said, an awkward smile overtaking her features.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, why?"

"You've not said two words together until just now since last evening."

"I'm tired," she looked away.

"Not sleeping well?"

"No," and that was that. He rode ahead after a moment and instructed them to stop.

Sansa dismounted and hurried with helping the others with the fire while the men erected the tents. To think she needed to do this for six more nights.

Dinner was quiet, she played with her food, hardly eating. Sansa excused herself and went to her tent to ready for bed. She sat on her cot, bed clothes on, and started to cry. How could this be happening? How could she allow it? She would need to stop it before it got worse…she wiped her face.

Jon would need to marry the Queen. That was all there was to it. That was the only way to stop her…her…

"Sansa?"

"Jon…" he was standing just inside the tent. She hadn't heard him enter. "What is it?"

"You aren't well. Something is bothering you."

"It's not," she straightened herself and stood.

"You hardly ate. You barely speak. What's happening?"

"Nothing. I merely want to be alone."

"I'm your brother."

"I know it."

He sighed. "You can talk to me, Sansa."

"I am. And I'm telling you that I'd like to be alone."

"But…"

"Jon, some things are not worth discussing."

He looked at her sadly. "I thought that we had developed a close relationship."

"We are siblings. We can only be so close."

He nodded. "I'll see you in the morning."

She lifted her chin and smiled…and when he left, she collapsed on the cot and sobbed.

She was ashamed beyond words, which was why she likely couldn't speak. She was sick with guilt, which was why she likely couldn't eat.

She had developed romantic feelings for her brother, and now everything had changed.


	8. Chapter 8

He laid awake much of the night, listening to the wind howl, and he thought of Ghost.

The Direwolf was one of the only things in his life that he truly felt was his, everything else had been a mirage…a fallacy…he had nothing, not really.

Jon sighed and turned onto his side.

Perhaps he didn't deserve anything. Perhaps he was not worthy of happiness. And he closed his eyes. How many people did he know who were happy?

Sam, perhaps. And that would be it.

Life was wrought with misery, and his should not be an exception to that. He had had his brief time with a kind of happiness in that cave with Yggrite…that would need to be enough.

Jon's eyes snapped open and he sat up, his stockinged feet hitting the floor of the tent. He needed to sleep…but couldn't…

His thoughts were with Sansa's behavior in King's Landing and now on the road. She had been so strange, wanting to stay at the Red Keep, being distant with him…

And they had another week of travel. It would be a long walk.

* * *

His breath was misting before him, he was sitting atop his mount, and he hadn't said a word to his sister all morning. He had caught her looking at him once or twice, but for the most part, she wasn't paying him attention. And so he would wait for her to get beyond whatever it was that was ailing her.

He couldn't help but feel somewhat annoyed at this. She was, in his mind, a friend as well. And there was no possible…

He looked up. Had he somehow let on his feelings for her? Jon glanced over at Sansa, but she was looking ahead of her rather deliberately.

By the gods…he closed his eyes…she would never forgive him. She was likely repulsed.

But how? How had he exposed his heart?

He went over his interactions with her in his mind over the past few weeks…since he had realized the depth of his regard…and nothing sprung to mind as being untoward. Nothing that he could think of could have indicated that he cared for her beyond sibling love.

And he had never spoken anything aloud.

He looked at his hands, holding the bridle. He was certain he had been careful…how could she have discovered?

Jon thought about the idea of talking with Sansa about this, and he nearly vomited. How could he? He'd be risking everything they had built.

He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't say a thing…it may have nothing to do with him, after all. Perhaps Sansa was wary of the forthcoming war. He certainly was. Or she might simply be fatigued from travel.

He resolved to himself that nothing would possess him to mention anything to her…

* * *

Jon sat by the fire that night, throwing bits of kindling into it, trying to get it more ablaze. It was a slow burn, and not much in terms of heat could be felt. He was resolute in his execution, not paying attention to the camp at large.

"Jon?"

He looked up at his sister's face. "You're speaking now, are you?" and he went back to the fire.

"I am…I…" he heard her hesitate, then watched as she sat down. "I don't think that it's good, this silence between us."

"It's your doing, Sansa," he sat now, too. "I don't understand what's…"

"I don't either. But…I dislike not speaking with you," she smiled a bit. "I'd like to talk. The way we had been."

He nodded, then sighed. "Did I upset you?" he asked softly.

"No. No, you didn't," her gaze fell. "I was thinking…I had thought…"

"What?"

She sighed. "I had thought that you were intending to marry the Queen."

"What are you talking about? When was that discussed?"

"I don't know that it was. I just thought that…"

"Sansa," he interrupted. "Is that why you suggested that we stay?"

She nodded. "It had made sense. But, now I think that you are not keen on the idea," she observed, looking steadily at him.

"It never even crossed my mind," he said. And now, things were making more sense. She was trying to ready herself for a goodbye…she was trying to prepare herself for his marriage.

And it seemed so ridiculous that that would, or indeed, could, happen. Jon Snow, King or not, would likely never marry. He had decided that long ago.

"Oh," replied Sansa softly. "But you're both monarchs. It made sense…"

"Well, I have no inclination to marry."

She smirked. "You don't?"

"Why would I? I'm still Ned Stark's bastard. No matter what the North says, I'll have that with me forever, and I wouldn't want to give it to any child," he looked back at the fire, now starting to take.

"You only give your children love, Jon. That's all that they want."

He looked at her…Sansa's lovely face…the lips he could never kiss…"Well, since it won't ever happen, no need to concern ourselves."

"I think that you'd make a fine father."

He chuckled. "And you'd make a fine mother. Now," he stood. "I should help the men with the tents. Can you see if they need anything for the meal?" he nodded and walked away. He needed to assert some control, for that talk made him long for something he knew he couldn't have.

Who was he fooling? It was more than a conversation in isolation that made him long. He was sick, that's what the issue was…no better than Jaime Lannister, the King Slayer…the man who he was convinced had hurt Bran somehow. He had an incestuous relationship with his dead sister. And now…now Jon was no better than him.

Except that he would exercise some self control and respect for his sister.

Not that Cersei deserved respect, but…

"My Lord, we do not require any help with the tents," said a hand.

"Oh," Jon nodded. "Well…I'll just gather some more wood so that it might dry for the fire," and he nodded.

"We have people for that, Your Grace!" the man called, but Jon was already walking. He was deep in thought…the idea was so nauseating that he couldn't get past it. He would not allow himself to be like Jaime Lannister. He would control himself…

Jon…

He turned.

There was Sansa…

"What are you doing here?" he quipped. "I thought that you were aiding with the food," he smiled and picked up some twigs from the forest floor.

Well, I was supposed to be. And Sansa walked toward him, undoing her coat.

"What are you doing?" his face fell.

I think you know, said Sansa, and she reached him. Her hands went up his chest, and she claimed his mouth.

Instantly, he responded, abandoning all decorum, all thoughts or beliefs of impurity…there was only her, and the fact that she sought had him out…

He pulled her clothes off of her, and there she was, in all of her beauty…he trailed kisses down her body…and he pulled her down with him to the cold ground.

Panicked embrace and fiery want was all he had been reduced to, and his arousal pulsed as Sansa began to take his clothes off, her eyes heavy and thick with desire…

"My Lord!" called a man.

…and Jon snapped himself out of his reverie, his erection evident through his coat. He adjusted himself, and blushed slightly. "Yes?" he turned. The squire was far enough away…

"Lady Sansa was just asking after you…I told her I'd give you the message."

"What message?"

There was a pause. "That…er…that she was looking for you?"

"Fine," Jon said. "Thank you," he called. By the gods. What a mess.

He made his way back with a fistful of twigs. He saw Sansa sitting by the fire, a small pot cooking atop it, and she held a spoon to stir it.

"You were looking for me?" he asked.

She looked up. "I was. You seemed to have been gone a while."

"I wasn't," he smiled, then placed the wood in a pile that had accumulated.

"I suppose," she turned back to the pot. "That I'm nervous. Little Finger had abandoned me, and I trusted him."

"You think I'll abandon you?" he sat next to her.

"No. But fear is often irrational."

"I won't, Sansa. I promise."

She looked at him. "Don't make promises you cannot guarantee you'll be able to keep," and Sansa stood, then went to her tent.

She was ready to cry again. It wasn't Jon's fault that she was so damaged. She had been utterly and forever changed by the things that had happened to her…and it was much to ask for someone to accept, let alone live with.

Sansa?

She turned. "I'll be all right, Jon," she smiled.

I know you will, he went over to her. But I don't know that I will be.

"What do you mean?" she searched his face…

And he kissed her.

And everything that she was worrying over melted away. He was kissing her, and she wanted him to…and it was tender and reverent, yet desperate, too…

She had never been kissed like that.

And she kissed him back…she felt everything was right in that moment.

He stepped back, and swallowing, back to pull open her coat…

"My Lady?"

She started. "Hm? Yes?" she turned.

"Supper is ready," the maid replied, leaving her there.

Sansa swallowed, and attempted to regather herself. Supper…

She nodded and went out to the fire.

* * *

The next couple of days were grueling…the air pinched and the sleep was difficult. The temperature seemed to steadily fall. And though they were speaking, Jon and Sansa felt, in equal measure, tension between them…inexplicable tension…

They were just a few days from Winterfell, and Sansa was exhausted. Leaving when they did, so soon after her recovery, and their hasty stay at King's Landing, was beginning to take its toll. She was tired of the travel, tired of the constant stop and start of it all…she wanted her bed.

"How many more nights?" she asked by the fire that night.

"Ah…two more, I think," said Jon.

She nodded. "I hope I can make it."

"You don't think that you can?"

"It's a long journey, Jon. And I'm weary."

He looked at her, then dropped his gaze. "Can I help?"

"No…"

"I'll have them make you tea, and bring it in your tent. Go lie down, Sansa," and he stood, going to one of the other fires nearby.

She looked at her hands, then rose. He was bringing her tea…She swallowed and made her way over. Sansa quickly got her warm, wool nightclothes on and slid into bed.

She watched as he opened the flap and went over to her, cup in hand. "Here. Drink it, then rest…"

…and Sansa sat up, took the cup, and her finger slid tangentially along his.

…his eyes closed a moment…

…and her breath hitched. "Thank you," she said, then downed the hot liquid. She handed back the cup, and laid down…

…her hair a cascade on her pillow, as Jon looked down. He nodded. "I hope it soothes you, and allows you to rest. We're almost home, Sansa. Then you take your sleep in you bed," he smiled.

"Yes…in my bed," she sighed, and closed her eyes.

And Jon Snow left her, took to his own tent, and laid down hurriedly. He wouldn't think about her any longer. It was a stain upon his mind, and he would overcome it…

…or die in the process.

He almost wished for death. It would end his suffering.


	9. Chapter 9

The travel for him was a combination of attempting to avoid his sister and trying to watch her. The absurdity of it all wasn't lost on him.

Jon was looking out toward the North, Winterfell just a day's journey away now. He sighed and shifted his weight as he looked on.

"Your Majesty?" came a voice.

Jon turned. "Yes?" he wasn't accustomed to hearing himself being addressed as such.

"Well, we was wonderin' if we could jus' travel troo da night. Everyone's pretty tire' of travel. An' we all anxious ta git ta the Wall."

"Have the tents been raised?"

"Nah, ser. We was jus' waitin'…"

"For?"

"For you, Yer Majesty."

Jon nodded. "I'll ask Lady Sansa what her preference is," and he walked passed him, wondering idly if it wasn't just an excuse to talk to her.

Damn if it was. He no longer cared.

And there she was, helping the hands with the fire. "Sansa," he called.

She turned in a hurried manner. "Jon," she said, brushing some hair from her face.

"Might I have a word?" he turned from her and went to the edge of the camp.

Sansa swallowed then followed. "What is it?" she asked as they reached the edge.

"The men are asking to travel through the night."

She breathed long. "No sleep…" she said, her exhale misting before her. She looked out into the expanse. It was threateningly white.

"We'd be at Winterfell by midday," he offered.

She considered a moment. "I suppose it makes sense…" she hesitated for a slightest breath, only because she wondered at the journey overnight.

"All right, then. I'll get the men ready…"

She nodded, not moving. She had noticed the way he was avoiding looking at her full on.

It likely meant nothing outside of his general annoyance with her…

But something whispered that he wasn't…that something lingered underneath…

She dismissed it and went to see to gathering up whatever had been unpacked for camp.

* * *

Sansa was on her horse not an hour later, watching the sun fall quickly over the mountains. She sighed and swallowed. She wanted to get back to Winterfell, but she also dreaded it. She wasn't sure what being home meant outside of war.

More explicitly, what it meant for her relationship with her brother.

"Sansa?"

She turned, and Jon was next to her.

"What are you thinking about?"

She sighed. "The forthcoming battle. I'm weary and tired. I dislike this not knowing, but I'm so exhausted…" her voice trailed.

"I know. It's frightening and I have no answers."

"Yes," she muttered.

"Sansa?"

"Hm?"

He swallowed. "I promised you that I'd protect you. I meant that."

She smiled and nodded, then rode ahead. What was she supposed to say…?

* * *

The night droned on, the cold seeping through their clothes, trying to penetrate their skin. Sansa was drained, she felt bleary eyed and numb.

And she had to relieve herself…

She looked around and whispered to a hand that she needed to stop up ahead.

"Very good, m'lady," said the maid, and followed Sansa to a wooded area.

Sansa slid off her horse and made her way through the thicket, trying to find a patch without snow or ice that she could squat.

…and Jon noticed that she had disappeared. His gaze darted over the company…she was gone.

"Lee?" he called to his trusted soldier. "Where has Lady Stark gone to?"

Lee looked around…"I can't say!" he called.

And Jon's face set. He felt his heart quicken. Did she fall asleep somewhere and he simply didn't notice? Is she back some miles? Was she taken by someone?

The maid was shifting her weight. She was concerned about her young daughter, now fifteen, among all of the men in the calvary…she hadn't wanted Lilane to come, but she insisted…

And her Lady was taking her time.

He spotted Sansa's handmaid by a clearing just ahead. She must have needed to stop for some reason…

…and he was instantly afraid. Was she sick?

He rode up to the maid. "Is Lady Stark in there?" he nodded to the wood.

"Aye, m'lord," she replied, scanning the company for her daughter. "She needed to stop."

"Is she well?" he looked at her crookedly and then at the troops marching. "What are you looking for?"

"Me daughter, Your Grace."

"Ah…" he looked back. "Go see to your girl. I'll wait for Lady Stark," he smiled.

"Oh, thank'ee, m'lord," she breathed, and jumped on her horse, hurrying off.

Jon dismounted and looked into the wood. He wanted to see her…his curiosity piqued, he crept inside.

He knew he was wrong to be doing this, that Sansa would be mortified if she saw him spying…

But he couldn't help himself…he softly padded the forest floor, his breath was slow and shallow. The night offering a cloak with which he could stealthily move.

And there she was, just standing up, her red hair a stain in the white of the thick. He froze, not knowing if he should turn and run, pretend he just happened upon her…

…and she saw him. She, too, stopped moving.

Why was Jon here? She was confused, played with her skirts…

And they stood there for a long moment, staring at one another.

And he took a step toward her.

Sansa swallowed.

Then another…until his pace was brisk…

He reached her, took her head in his hands, and kissed her.

Sansa was overcome…she started to pull away, but his kiss was desperate, and she wanted it…

She wanted it.

She responded, hungrily kissing him back, never having experienced anything like want before…

And Jon felt himself stirring, he pressed himself against her, hungry for touch…"Sansa…" he breathed into her mouth…

And she regained something of herself. She touched his hands…pulling them away…"No, Jon, we mustn't," she looked into his eyes. "What are we doing?"

"I don't give a damn…"

"Then we are Lannister's. That's what we are. And it's forbidden," she hissed.

He swallowed. He stepped back. He nodded. "Get thee gone," he rasped. "I'll be right there."

She looked at him crookedly. He seldom used such language. But she gathered herself and went to her horse.

And she felt equal parts elated and paralyzed. She mounted the steed with quivering hands and got going. She wouldn't think about it. She would act as though nothing happened. It was one moment…it needn't mean anything.

* * *

Jon Snow stood there in the wood, unsure of what he had done. He told her he didn't give a damn…

What did that mean? Give a damn about what? About what people thought? About what _she_ thought?

He looked at the forest ceiling, snow covered and dark.

He was so ashamed, and yet, he wasn't…he had wanted to kiss Sansa. He had dreamt of it, even before those stolen kisses when she was ill and in bed.

He sighed and rubbed his face. He'd need to talk to her, though he was loathe to it. He had no idea what he would say…mostly because he wasn't sorry, but also because he was.

Jon was sorry because he knew he had hurt her, but that was all.

And to think, she thought of the Lannister's! To compare that to them! He turned and left the wood.

Winterfell would be in their sight in a few hours.

* * *

The round towers rose against the morning, and Sansa's weary eyes were bloodshot and tearing. She was exhausted, and wanted only to sleep.

She was certain that the Queen would be arriving shortly, and she wasn't anticipating that with any happiness.

She couldn't think about her brother, about the battle…only her bed. Sansa kicked her horse and sped to the gates…

She walked into the square and smiled to a few people, but hastened to her rooms.

It was quite cold.

Sansa went to light her hearth and nearly caught herself on fire in the process, she was so sleepy.

She went to her wardrobe and took out some night things and changed.

Sansa Stark told herself that she was tired from riding all night.

She wouldn't think that she was avoiding her brother.

* * *

"Where did Lady Stark go?" he asked Sansa's maid.

"I'm unsure, m'lord. She hastened away as soon as the gate lifted."

Jon nodded. She was avoiding him. "Thank you," he smiled and turned. He'd leave her alone.

For now.

He strode off, thinking of what he was going to say to her once she emerged from her rooms. He went to the great hall where the men were eating, at least those who hadn't gone to the barracks to sleep. Jon looked at the food being served and took a piece of brown bread and left.

He bit into it and saw his hand shaking slightly. He had made a mistake, he was just unwilling to see it as such.

Sansa would never forgive him. She'd never trust him. And he had promised her so faithfully that he'd protect her, when she needed to be protected from him.

He'd need to go to her…explain, or at least, try to…

Jon went to her rooms and rapped softly on the door. "Sansa?"

There was no answer.

He slowly opened the large wooden door…"Sansa?" he said, a bit louder. He walked in, and saw her standing by the window at the far opposite end of the room. He closed the door behind him. "Sansa…I'd like to talk…"

She turned now. "About what?"

He swallowed. "About what happened in the wood…"

She paled. "Jon…I think it's best that we forget everything. We need to think about the battle. About the Queen coming with her dragons. She'll be here in just a few hours now."

"What if I don't want to forget?" he was desperate. He had thought that he wanted to apologize and move on, but now…"Sansa…" he walked over to her. "I know that I told you…"

"Enough," she stepped back. "I can't. Things aren't…" she looked away. "We have a duty to the North that we must see to. We need to protect the people from this threat, and until that happens, we cannot think of anything else…" her voice trailed. Part of her was upset to be ignoring this…it was something that she had only very recently realized, to her own horror…but there was something of a relief that Jon might share her heart.

At least she wasn't all alone _and_ insane.

Though these feelings for a sibling must only be condemned, and she must try to get passed them until the battle was over.

And then bury them.

"I am sorry, Jon…" she breathed.

He stared at her. She made sense. Of course she did. He nodded, then left.

His pace was fast through the narrow halls of Winterfell…he needed to get out. He needed to breathe. The Targaryen Queen would be there posthaste, and he needed to collect himself. He went outside sans proper protection against the cold, and ran through the fields toward the wood surrounding the castle.

Jon Snow took a branch from a tree and broke it in half…he strode through the soft carpet of wood, toward the end, where a precipice was.

And he looked out into the landscape, heavy with snow, glazed with ice. The white was a shawl over the North…it covered and muffled all sound.

He breathed, looking out…

It was coming.

The great war.

Yet at that moment, nothing could quell the rage inside of him. He hated that he loved his sister…and that was not what love was, at least…not how he understood love to be…

Yet here he was. Hating himself again.

He swallowed and threw the branch down the hillside.

It could never be. She'd never allow it. And he'd need to live with that.

Jon Snow looked again toward the horizon. Day held only a few hours of light now, and it was certainly more than half over.

He'd need to ready for the Dragon Queen.


	10. Chapter 10

_Again, we are treading close to "The Key," here…but I'll be changing it up._

* * *

She didn't want to see the Queen. Not that she didn't like her, but she represented things to Sansa.

Jealousy.

Command…power…certainty…things that, if she were honest, Sansa wished she had more of. Instead, she was standing at her window, unsure of what had occurred, why it had…why she had done nothing to stop it.

Because, she reminded herself, she had wanted it.

And that was the key here.

She was so ashamed! After her yearning, it had happened…the gods had allowed it. Just as they had allowed her to be beaten by Joffrey, sold by Littlefinger, and raped by Ramsay. And now, the gods saw fit for her to be a sinner unlike any sinner since Cersei Lannister, for she knew she was incestuous.

Sansa closed her eyes, and shame blanketed her like a cloak. It would protect her from Jon…she would not allow it ever again. Never would he attempt it…she would be mute and good. She would need to recapture some of her old self, much as she loathed to. She misliked her old self…but that girl would never have dreamt of kissing her brother, let alone desire to.

…and she wondered very softly if it had been all she had experienced that drew her to this desire. That perhaps it wasn't all her fault…

She opened her eyes, resolute. She would not waver. She had seduced him somehow…she knew not how. A spell, a trance of some sort had obviously mired his senses, and she would need to be strong and disallow further action on either of their parts.

"M'lady!" called the maid.

Sansa turned. "Yes?"

"The Queen…she's here."

Sansa nodded. It had only been a few hours since she and Jon had arrived at Winterfell, and the Queen had been fast on their heels.

She smoothed herself out and left her room.

* * *

Jon had greeted the Queen and her Hand, not unnoticing of the change in their air. They had grown closer.

He scoffed a bit at that. This Queen was something. She had no qualm with involving herself with a dwarf.

Not that he saw anything wrong with Tyrion. He always rather liked him…but the choice was nevertheless a strange one, and he wondered a bit at it.

His stride was long as he made his way down the hall. He thought that he should alert Sansa, but then thought better of it. He would not bother her.

He was not looking forward to sitting with the Queen and her company. He rather just wanted to be on with it.

Jon went to his rooms to change for dinner, which was not something he did ordinarily. But Catelyn had taught him some things, and he meant to make an impression on the Dragon Queen. He would not be lying down, he would be fighting for the North and the North's faith in him.

He swallowed as he pulled his shirt on. He would not think of Sansa. Not now.

He couldn't.

It hurt.

Because he knew that she was right…what good were they if they were behaving like the dead Queen and her brother?

…and the Hand. Sansa's former husband…

He felt ill, and left the room in a hurry.

It was folly to continue to fret over such things. No good would come of any of it. Sansa had made herself clear. And she could be stubborn.

He walked into the dining hall, smaller than the Red Keep's, and saw the Queen, her Hand…

And Sansa, all waiting for him with patient looks on their faces.

He nodded, then sat at the head of the table, a place becoming a bit more comfortable for him. "Well, it is good to all be here," he looked around.

"When do we leave for the Wall?" asked Daenerys.

He looked at her. "The armies of Westeros are assembling around Winterfell. We have only to wait for Riverrun and the Lannister reinforcements. Then we should be ready."

"When is that?" she asked.

"I'd imagine that we could expect them in an hour or two."

The Queen nodded. "Good."

"And when these reinforcements arrive, I have plans to drive the battle," said Tyrion with a nod. He sipped long. "I was just conferring with your sister, and she told me that you might have some observations to offer regarding this."

Jon looked at Sansa. "I…not really," he looked now at Tyrion. "I haven't anything more to add than what I'm certain you have drawn up…but I'd like to see the plans."

"Of course you would, and I suggest we do so following our meal," he sipped. "There is much to discuss."

Daenerys was smiling at him. "My lord understands that though there is an immediacy of moment, there is still time enough for wine."

He tipped his cup. "And where would we be without time for wine?"

"Clear minded," replied Jon. "There is an army of dead on the move."

"You know that I am in complete agreement with you, Lord Snow, but even you must understand how ridiculous that sounds," said Tyrion, bemusedly. "An army of dead. What a time we live in."

"Now," continued Jon. "Is not the time for jokes," he said with some heat.

"My lord, if an army of dead does not inspire humor, if only for the preservation of the mind, I know not what will," he drained his cup.

"Jon is not accustomed to much in terms of mirth," said Sansa. "He has always been serious," she smiled at her brother.

Tyrion's gaze flitted between them and then filled the wine once more. "I see. Well, I cannot afford to not have a laugh. I have learned from a very young age that if I don't laugh first, I shall be laughed at. And that, my dears, I've had my fill of. So I best them at their own games, and enjoy myself along the way."

Dany cleared her throat. "And what, King Snow, do you suggest in terms of reinforcements?"

Thus the conversation went, until they adjourned to the receiving hall, where Jon spoke with generals and Dany met them.

Sansa was along the periphery, watching them. She felt at war with herself. She wanted to go over and pull Jon away from her, but also wanted to do what was best for him.

Perhaps being with the Queen, in whatever capacity he could was what was best for him.

And though she had some ideas about the forthcoming battle, it was Jon this time who could boast experience, and so she kept mostly quiet.

* * *

They received the generals, the commanders…it took what seemed hours. Sansa was growing tired of it, longing to get to the Wall and on with the battle that was coming.

"Jon!" came a voice, someone that Sansa did not know.

…but Jon clearly did. "Sam Tarly!" he exclaimed, going over to him. "What are you doing here?" he smiled large, and gave him a hug.

"Well…I need you to know some things before you head North. Important things…" he breathed.

Jon nodded, noting the seriousness on his face and directed him to sit. "What news?"

Sam took a deep breath…wiped his brow. "Well…" he paused. "Have you got some drink?" he looked around, then taking note of the company now. His gaze rested on the Queen. "You're the Targaryen Queen," he said.

She cocked a brow, and smirked. "I am."

Jon blushed somewhat at his friend's impropriety. "Sam…what is it that you need to tell me?"

Sam took the goblet and drained the cup. "It's about Bran."

Sansa's face fell almost as fast as Jon's. "Bran?" they said in unison.

"Ya," said Sam, looking around. "You need to know before you go…"

"Know what?" Jon said, regaining myself.

"About your brother," he replied. "I've been at the citadel…been reading. It's been wonderful," he smiled. "But…as I've read about Westeros, I've seen him…your brother. He's all over the books."

"I don't understand," Jon looked at him confusedly.

"Bran Stark. There are loads of them scattered throughout history. "Bran the Builder. He built the Wall, and Winterfell. Brandon Stark, the Breaker, who defeated the Night's King. Bran the Burner, who burned the northern ships. Brandon Ice Eyes, who defeated slavers. And a dozen more…" he looked around. "I…I know it sounds mad…"

"What are you saying, exactly?" asked Sansa.

"I'm saying, that…"

"…that Brandon, your brother," began Tyrion. "Is the same Bran Stark who can be found throughout history."

Jon's brow furrowed. "Is that what you're saying?" he couldn't believe it.

"Well…yes. I know…but it makes sense."

"How? How does that make any sense?"

"He's been trying to stop the Night's King for centuries," Sam replied. "He's been traveling through time…"

"How is he supposed to do that?" demanded Jon.

"He's the Three Eyed Raven now," Sam replied, as though obvious.

"How do you know?"

"I don't. But it makes sense, doesn't it?"

"None of this makes sense," said Jon, sitting back.

Sam looked desperately around for some agreement.

"You know," began Tyrion. "We are fighting an army of the dead. Your brother being the Three Eyed Raven is no more mad than that."

"You believe this?" spat Jon.

Tyrion shrugged. "Why not?"

"Where is Bran now?" asked Dany.

"No one knows," said Jon. "We haven't seen him…Theon Greyjoy had said that he killed our brothers…" he looked at Sansa, who he knew had this information. "But then it was rumored that they had escaped."

"Then what Sam says, however illogical, is not impossible," said Dany.

"No, but…" Jon began.

"What if it's true?" breathed Sansa. "Jon. What if it's true. We could see Bran again." Her face held a longing she didn't realize she was feeling…the thought…it made her heady and almost faint.

Sansa didn't realize that so much of her suffering had been alone, until the thought of seeing her brother again filled her heart.

True, she had been beside herself when she saw Jon again, but she was quickly filled with a rage, and a desire to kill Ramsay Bolton. Now, she had only fear and shame…seeing Bran would be like rekindling her parents…she and Jon and Bran could make some family…with Rickon dead, her parents dead, Arya …gods knew where…likely dead…she swallowed.

"Sansa," Jon whispered. "It can't be true," he held her gaze. She was reaching, he knew it.

"I know it sounds mad," interrupted Sam. "But I'm no dummy, Jon. I'm a lot of things, but dumb isn't one. I'm telling you. Bran is just beyond the Wall."

Jon watched Daenerys stand. "We will be leaving at first light. My Hand and I will ride on the dragons, and if there is an opportunity, we will search for your brother from above. King Snow," she looked at Jon. "Have all of the commanders been seen?"

"Yes."

"Then we will take our leave," she looked at Tyrion, then turned and left.

Tyrion finished his drink. "Well," and he slid off his chair. "It seems I am to say goodnight. I hope that you both sleep well. Sam," he nodded. "It was a pleasure and most illuminating to speak with you," he nodded and left.

Sam stood. "I'll say goodnight, then."

"Where are you going?" asked Jon.

"To Gilly and little Sam."

"You'll stay in here. You're no soldier, and neither is Gilly," Jon stood.

"That's not…"

"Just get them," he smiled.

Sam glanced at Sansa then left.

Jon sighed, looking down. "I know what you're thinking…" he looked up at her.

"No you don't."

"You want to see your brother. It's natural…but Sansa…"

"He's your brother, too," she interrupted. "And with all the things we seen…why can't Bran being alive be possible?"

"It isn't just him being alive…"

"That's all I'm concerned with," she stood, holding his gaze. "I don't care if he's the same Bran who built the Wall, or the same Bran who created brown bread. I care that he's our brother. That's all I care about, and that's why I want to see him."

"I do too…but you must know…"

"You don't," she spat. "If you did…"

"Don't tell me that I don't love Bran," he stepped closer. "Mum thought that. She thought that somehow, it was my fault he fell. She blamed me for everything, because I was our father's bastard. And I never lived that down," he stepped still nearer. "And I never stopped hating myself. And I always, always loved my siblings," he was in front of her now.

"Mum blamed you?" Sansa whispered.

"Couldn't you see it?" he returned, looking earnestly at her.

She went to him and wrapped her arms around him. "I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling him hold her back, his breath, his heat.

"S'okay," he said softly. And he felt a pull and tug of kind, wanting only to stay there with her…

She pulled away. "I should go."

He nodded.

She stayed for a moment, looking at him; then turned and left the room.

The door's click was stunted in the stillness of the air.


	11. Chapter 11

_I should say that I have made the Wall much closer to Winterfell than GRRM suggests._

* * *

The dawn, if you could call it such, was sick and grey.

Sansa stood looking over the snow covered hills, evergreens peppering the rise. She sighed, and her breath fogged the window. She was fully dressed, thinking about what she was going to do…

She knew that she would need to argue with Jon to allow her to go to the Wall. She didn't want to argue, but she also didn't want to stay at Winterfell while Bran could be so close, and Jon was surely in danger.

Sansa turned and left her room, thinking about these things, and yet trying not to think about them.

It would do no good to perseverate. She would need to go to Jon with her assertion that she would be safe, that she would remain out of the fray. She would not interfere, as long as nothing seemed terribly illogical; but with Tyrion in a position of influence, that hardly seemed likely.

So she would go to him, and take her request with her…he was her brother after all. She should not be wary.

And he was sitting at the table in the map room by himself, eating what appeared to be bread. She stopped and looked at him for a moment, then cleared her throat.

He looked up at her, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Good morning," he said roughly.

Sansa nodded and walked over to him. "Preparing for an invasion?"

"Not exactly," and he stood, looking at the table. "Preparing for the defense of our land."

"You are going to the Wall, though, right?"

"That's the plan," he sighed. "I don't know if the dragons alone can hold them."

"Well, you'll have other things. Men. Dragon glass. It'll be…."

"Unwinnable. But I need to do _something."_

"Of course," she smiled…now was the time. "Jon…"

He looked up at her, brow furrowed in thought.

"I…" she swallowed. "I'm going to the Wall with you."

His face hardened. "Sansa. That's…"

"I know what you're going to say," she turned the corner round the table. "But I've lived through so much…I told you everything I've seen. And now…" she sounded desperate. "Now I need to see Bran. I need to be there. I need to know…and I can't just sit here in Winterfell while you're off…"

"This is not a discussion I'm willing to have," he said, going to the window. He would not put her in harm's way. Not willfully.

"I'm a grown woman," she insisted. "I can make up my own mind about things."

"Including the manner of your own death?" he spat, turning toward her. "Do you really believe that I'd allow you…?"

"Allow me?" she hissed. "I'm my own person, Jon Snow. Whether you are willing to accept it or not," and she turned and left him there.

He seethed. She was something, Sansa Stark. And how was he supposed to defy her direct wishes? She would find a way around it. She'd surely ride ahead or stow away…

He slammed his fist on the wall. She was impossible…and his heart was along with her.

He sighed, and decided to follow her, try to talk some sense. He walked out and looked both ways.

She wasn't there…"Sansa?" he called. He headed left down the hall…

She was standing at the end.

The same alcove she was in the night he discovered his heart. "Sansa?" he said softly.

She looked at him. "What?"

"You'll pout until I agree, won't you?"

"He's our brother," she replied.

"And you mean to put yourself into danger no matter what I say," he took a step closer.

"Bran would do it for me," she looked down.

How could he argue with that? "You'll stay at Castle Black. If Bran is found, we will bring him to you."

Sansa's eyes snapped to his. "You won't fight me on this?"

"How could I?" his gaze softened, and his love for her welled inside of him. "The Night's Army is close, Sansa. I can't lose you. Not after all I've seen."

"You won't."

"How can you be certain?"

She swallowed. "I can't. But I've survived so much that this one thing shouldn't be terribly difficult," she smiled. "After all…what's the Night King compared to Joffrey? Or Ramsay?"

"It's not funny," he replied with some surety.

"Tyrion has the right idea, I think. We need to laugh. In times like this, it's one of our only defenses."

Jon sighed. "You care for him."

"For who?"

"Tyrion Lannister."

"Oh…well. I told you. He was always kind," she surveyed him closely. "Why shouldn't I care for him?"

Jon swallowed…there was no reason. No good one, at any rate. "No reason," he muttered.

Sansa inhaled…"Well. I'm going," and she straightened her back.

"Yes," he nodded. "I suppose you are."

"When are we leaving?"

He looked away. "In just a few hours."

"Are you scared?"

"Not really," he smiled slightly. "Not of death. But of being taken by the army, I am. Of losing myself to the Night King. I've seen it…seen it happen. It's …"

"Terrifying?" she whispered.

And he nodded slowly, looking at her. "At Hardhome. It was…I've never been so afraid."

Sansa wanted to hold him…to attempt to assuage his pain and his fear…but she was also afraid, and what she feared was getting too close to her brother. "It'll be all right, Jon," she swallowed, and stepped toward him. "I have to believe that. After everything…"

He nodded, looking at her mouth. He could feel the kiss they shared just two days ago on his lips…"After everything," he repeated. And he felt as though her heart was locked tight against him, that their sibling relationship, the kiss that they had shared, all served as further impediment…and the chains of that lock grew heavier and less penetrable…"Sansa…I'm sorry."

"What for?" though she did not recognize her voice.

"For making you feel however you felt after we kissed," he said it. He said it, and though he held no regret, he knew that she did.

Sansa's eyes fell and she stepped back. "Think not of it again."

Oh, how he wish he could…"We leave soon."

She nodded.

He looked at her, then turned and walked away. He could not speak any longer…

* * *

 _The air was nearly frozen. His breath hurt…_

 _He was alone, clutching Longclaw. His head whipped around, ready for someone, or something to present._

 _Nothing._

 _"Hello?" he yelled._

 _Nothing._

 _He took a step, and the ground cracked. Jon jumped back…_

 _"There's no way…"_

 _And he turned._

 _And there was Sansa._

 _Except she wasn't Sansa. Her clothes were ice blue…her hair, white, and her eyes…_

He sat straight up in bed.

Jon was striding with his coat and his sword in its holster. They were leaving, and he needed to see Sansa.

…and she was there, speaking with her maid.

"Sansa!" he called out.

She turned, looked at him, then nodded to her maid.

He walked toward her. "Sansa, I've been thinking. I don't think you should travel to the Wall."

"What?"

"I think you should stay at Winterfell. I'll send word as I things happen, and if Bran…"

"I'm going," she spat. "I'm going."

"But if something were to happen to both of us…"

"I'm not having this conversation, Jon. I'm going," and she turned.

How could he explain to her that he was concerned about a dream he had? "Sansa…wait," he went after her. He looked at her and sighed. "All right. Just promise you won't leave the castle."

"I already…"

"I know. But I want to hear you say it again."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "I promise."

He nodded and went to his horse.

He would be so relieved when this was over.

He'd ride ahead…the thought of being there with her, looking at her…it was too much. Jon didn't look back as he rode, the cold biting him and the company behind him, he took the brunt of the weather.

They rode through the night and reached the Wall just after daybreak. The dragons were tethered to the ground, snarling slightly when they saw Jon.

He paid them no mind, but strode into the castle, feeling some reprehension as he did so…the last time he had been there he had only recently been resurrected.

"Lord Commander!" came a voice.

He turned. "Commander Pyke," he smiled. "I'm not your Lord Commander."

"I know…force of habit," he smiled. "The Dragon Queen is here. She's above, with the dwarf…"

"Her Hand, you mean?"

"Aye, yes. Her Hand."

Jon nodded, then walked. "Where's Commander Tollett? I'd hoped to see him."

"We have been fighting the Night Army for so many weeks, we've lost count. Lord Commander Tollett was injured. He's taken to the bed…Maester Aemon hasn't left his side these two weeks…" they rounded a bend.

"What does he say? Maester Aemon?"

"That he likely won't survive, and to burn the body. Commander Tollett hasn't announced his successor yet."

Jon considered this. The Wall couldn't be left without a Lord Commander. He'd need to speak with someone who might be able to name a suitable replacement, should it come to that. They ascended the stairs, and there was Daenerys and Tyrion, speaking together. They turned. "I wanted to alert you of our arrival," said Jon.

The Queen nodded. She glanced sideways at Tyrion. "My Hand and I were just speaking of the coming army, and the wisdom in having more than one dragon rider."

"Are you for or against more than one?"

"Against," she replied. "We need to have someone here, issuing instructions."

"And I think," interjected Tyrion. "That our monarch should not be by herself over this northern landscape."

She looked at him. "I'll be fine."

"It is not a matter of being 'fine,' Your Grace."

"I want you where I know you'll be…" she said, turning fully toward him.

"I'll be air bound. Next to you…"

"No," and she looked at Jon. "Is Lady Stark here?"

"Against my better judgment," he replied. "Lady Stark has her own ideas about things."

Daenerys smirked. "Where is she now?"

"Below."

"What if you waited with…" Daenerys began.

"Absolutely not," said Tyrion, walking past both of them. "I am a grown man," he paused, then looked back. "Well. I'm an old man," he smiled. "And I can make up my own mind about things," he strode off muttering: "The very idea that I should be treated…"

Jon looked at the Queen. "You care for him."

"I love him," she was looking at Tyrion descending the stairs. "I had a dream…" she looked at Jon. "Do you believe in the power of dreamscape?"

"I don't know what I believe."

"I do. And I saw him…he was a white walker…"

…and the image of Sansa's own frozen face swam before his eyes. "You think it's a prognostication?"

"I don't care to risk it," she replied. "Shall we?" and she turned, walking down the stairs.

He hesitated a touch. Looked out over the Wall's helm. Then he breathed slowly and followed her.

He hadn't seen Sansa since they left Winterfell, so seeing her at the base of the lift was jarring at first. He went over. "Have you been taken to a room?" he asked.

She looked at him. Sansa was somewhat hurt by his indifference toward her…but she couldn't be too cross…she needed space from him. "I have."

Jon nodded. "Well…you'll be waiting here. Tomorrow we face the army. Pyke says that they're advancing quickly now."

She blanched. She didn't want to press it, but she misliked being spat instructions. "Some day you'll learn that I shouldn't be discounted, Jon."

"I don't discount you," he said.

"You underestimate me."

"I wouldn't dare. Not after the Knights of the Vale showed so timely."

She smiled. "Well…" she sighed.

…and as she said it, darkness fell suddenly…there were some gasps and hurried sounds of people yelling and running for the lift…

…and the screams of the dead were heard in the distance.


	12. Chapter 12

…and they didn't stop.

Sansa's eyes went wide. She swallowed. "Jon," she breathed. Fear pulsed her visage and she grabbed his arm. "Get Bran." She couldn't fathom what Bran, if he was alive, had seen…experienced…

Jon nodded, and felt somewhat guilty about his heart skipping a beat at her touch. Bran…out there…his brother…he turned away and admonished himself for even thinking about such things at this time.

They would need to assemble and quickly. He strode over to the men, freezing as they waited instruction from their King…

He looked at them all.

They were counting on him.

* * *

Sansa ran inside of Castle Black, unsure of what she was doing…she only knew that she was terrified.

She was breathing hard…those screams…she closed her eyes as she neared the hearth. It was unimaginable…

And she shook.

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself…she thought about what she must do. What she _could_ do. There wasn't much.

But Jon wanted her to just sit. Sit, while he risked his life. Sit, while Bran was out there, beyond the Wall…doing gods knew what.

It was intolerable. She had been sitting most of her life.

She couldn't sit any longer.

Sansa opened her eyes. She would try…try to get out and do something. What that something was, she hardly knew.

* * *

Jon nodded, but he wasn't paying attention. The Lannister armies had assembled and everyone from Winterfell was there.

He wanted this all to be over as quickly as possible. He wanted to go home and prepare for the winter.

"Ser…Your Grace…?"

His eyes snapped to one of the generals. "That all sounds fine. I'll just…" he heard the distant screaming and the roar of the dragons. "I'll send the word. Not long now," and he strode off, his brow furrowed in concentration. He did not want to find Bran only to lose him in a battle, which was possible.

And he wondered about Sansa.

He sighed, and took Longclaw, sliding it into the sheath.

Time to fight.

* * *

She was standing by the great door, listening and breathing hard. She had heard the roar of the dragons echoing in the distance. Frightful creatures…she was wary of them.

Sansa knew that the Queen had mounted the largest one, and that she was directing the other two from her perch.

She worried that some of them might get crossed in the line of literal fire.

Her back pressed against the door and her breath came heavy. She knew that she shouldn't open the door…

* * *

Longclaw fell again and again. It cracked and destroyed the generals, it decimated the whites. He turned again, and saw a flood of the undead spilling toward him.

And for a moment he stopped, looking at the onslaught…the sounds seemed to be muffled all around him.

…and he thought of Sansa, and her lips against his…

He raised the sword once more, and it landed, splitting a skull in two.

* * *

She was perched above, having left the door, feeling both vulnerable and trapped and so much more. She was looking down, her gaze fixed on Jon.

And he danced and slashed and hit the walkers…they fell in turn.

She wasn't breathing properly, and she turned away. Sansa held her hands to her mouth, the panic rising.

She couldn't lose anything else. She could not bear to lose anyone…

And if she was honest, the thought of losing Jon was especially torturous.

Sansa turned and looked out again.

She spotted Tyrion along the periphery, seemingly stalking something or someone…

The Night King.

He was in the middle of a wintery glen, standing and watching the fighting…next to his horse.

Her breath stopped, and she fancied she saw him look up at her.

Her mind froze, and she swallowed.

And there…crawling along the ground behind him…

She turned away quickly and ran down the stairs. One thought pulsed her brain…

* * *

Jon's face had been bloodied, but he couldn't stop. They were thinning in numbers with the Queen's dragons above, but not enough to comfortably stop the battle.

He heard one if the beasts land behind him. "Duck!" he yelled, and a ceiling of fire erupted over their heads. The fire stopped, and he stood, looking at the carnage.

Everything went silent for a second, and he looked around.

…there she was. Running.

And fear and anger welled. "Sansa!" Jon yelled. What the hell was she doing? "Sansa!" she was running, pell mell into the evergreens just beyond the fray. He panicked. He needed to stop her…

…and he looked behind him. One of the dragons was there, the one who had burned the whites a moment previous…and it was looking at him. He hesitated just a moment, then deciding he needed to act, strode over to the beast and got on his back. Jon didn't pause, didn't hesitate…he just needed to get her. "Get Sansa Stark," he said to the head of the monster.

And he took flight.

She was running even still, and the Night King, he only just noticed, was emerging from a wood…

…and Bran was crawling behind him.

Jon swooped down and grabbed Sansa's arm…"Bran!" he yelled…

The Night King had not looked behind him. He was brandishing a large spike…and as he reared, Bran cut his ankle from behind, causing the frozen King to fall, and then Bran stabbed him in the throat.

Jon tore his eyes away, landing with a thud.

Sansa pushed him, eyes streaming as she slid off the dragon. "How could you?" she screamed. "Bran was there! Did you not see him?"

The dragon roared, Daenerys landed not far away on Drogon, and the whites were still.

They all looked around…

…and the whites disintegrated.

Jon looked at where the Night King lay.

And Bran rose from the forest floor.

"Tyrion!" called Daenerys. "Where is my Hand?" she asked someone.

Jon saw the Hand walking out from the thick…"Just there," he yelled to her, and she ran to him, taking his hand after kissing him, and brought him over to Drogon. "Where is the Night King?" she yelled.

Jon shook his head, watching Bran approach them.

…and Brandon Stark was ice blue. His eyes, blue.

Jon swallowed. He was not looking at Bran. He was looking at the Night King.

"Bran?" Sansa choked, going to him.

"I am not Brandon Stark. I am every Brandon Stark. I am the Three Eyed Raven. And now, I am the Night King."

Sansa gasped.

"I have been trying to prevent the invasion of the Night's Armies for a millennia. I only just realized that I cannot accomplish this without becoming their leader. And I will take the Wights back to the North to live out my days…however I can," he paused. "Where is Jon Snow?"

Jon stepped forward. "Here, brother."

"We are not brothers," he turned to him. "We are cousins."

"What?" Jon smiled.

"Your father was not my father. Your father was Rhaegal Targaryen, and your mother was Lyanna Stark. They loved one another, Jon. And they married. You are no bastard, and you are Targaryen and Stark both. You have a claim to Westeros, should you want it."

"What…?" Jon breathed.

"What you think are impediments are not. There is no lock…only a key to a locked door," he looked at Daenerys. "And you hold within you a chance at peace. That is the key. She exists, if you allow her to." Bran nodded. "I had whispered to your father, Aerys, about these things. He was not mad, but believed himself to be…me…trying to forestall the inevitability of this…I caused much damage to many people, when I only had wanted to save them," he shook his head. "I was scared of what I needed to do."

"Bran…please…what happened?" Sansa sounded desperate.

He looked at her and smiled. "It suits you," he answered.

"What?"

"Allow yourself some happiness, Sansa. And know that Arya is on her way home," he turned to leave.

"No…no…" she went to go after him, but Jon took her arm. "Let me go…Bran! Bran! Please!"

"I'm sorry, Sansa," he said, looking at her and smiling. "It's the only way. Trust me. I've tried everything…" he looked around. "Winter is here. But it will not be as severe, or of long duration. Go home and prepare," he then looked at Sansa again. "I'll be watching you, sister. I love you," and he turned, walking into the mist between the trees.

Sansa wept.

Jon held onto her, not really feeling anything, for everything he knew was false and different.

He stared at the nothing, feeling it stare into him.

* * *

He walked into the small dining hall by the large hearth and looked around at the company:

Daenerys, Tyrion, and Sansa.

Jon wasn't certain that he wanted to talk about anything that had happened, but looking around, he supposed he had little choice. He sat, then, a bit away from them, and stared at the fire.

"Jon," Sansa said.

He didn't look up.

"We need to talk about what happened."

"I don't want to talk, Sansa," he replied.

"Our sullen friend here is not fully aware of all that was just handed to him," he heard Tyrion say.

"What was handed to me, exactly? I have just been told that my father was not my father, and that I have a name I had no idea I had," Jon spat.

"No. You have an infinitely more powerful name. You have gained an aunt. An aunt who is Queen, no less. You now have at least one more cousin, and another who is reigning over the northernmost parts of this continent. You have lost nothing but the name, 'Snow,' a rather uninspiring name, and one that denotes a state you no longer inhabit."

"I don't see it that way," and he didn't.

"How do you see it?" Tyrion sipped.

"I've lost the only identity I ever had," Jon muttered.

"Forever a brooding pessimist, our young King is," he smiled. "Do, try to look at the positives of your situation for a moment Your Grace. We have stopped the armies, and you have much to be thankful for. We have discovered the secrets Bran Stark held…and you, you can return home with a more powerful birthright than nearly every person here," Tyrion sat back.

"I think…" began Daenerys. "I think that I might retire. We leave tomorrow for Winterfell, and I'd like to get some proper rest," she looked at Tyrion, smiling, then turned to Jon. "I am very happy to welcome you into the Targaryen family. I hope that we can grow close," and she stood. "We are all that's left of it," she looked pointed at Sansa. "At present," and she put her hand on Tyrion's shoulder, bent down, and kissed his mouth. "Do come to bed soon," she was heard whispering, and left.

"I think," began Sansa. "That I should retire as well. I'm exhausted and overwhelmed with everything that has happened," she stood, not really looking at either man.

…who both nodded.

"Cheers, Lady Stark," Tyrion raised his cup.

And the two were left alone.

"You know," began the Hand. "If you never smile at all, your face may forget how," he looked at Jon pointedly. "How is it that you're so sullen?"

"I don't know," and Jon sat back. "Not much to be happy about, I suppose."

"Now, Jon…if I may call you Jon…"

He nodded with a shrug.

"I think there's plenty of things for you to be pleased with. Your great war was won without much bloodshed. You are King of the North. You are in league with King's Landing," he took a long draught. "And you are in love."

Jon's eyes snapped to his. "What?"

"You are in love. With Sansa. And unless I'm much mistaken, she reciprocates."

His mouth hung open. "How…?"

"Oh come. Anyone could see…" and he leaned forward. "And now, there is no impediment, for cousins is much different from siblings…"

He blanched.

"You'd best go and get her, Jon. Love is powerful and not to be gainsaid."

Jon looked at the fire.

Cousins…


	13. Chapter 13

Tyrion had a smug look on his face. "Well?"

Jon swallowed. "She won't care."

"What makes you say so?"

"I know Sansa. It'll be improper…she'll say…"

"Listen to me, Jon Targaryen. Relations between cousins is not improper. It's not…" he paused. "Ideal, perhaps, but what of it? We are all interrelated, anyway, if one goes back far enough," and he sipped.

"Does the Queen approve of you drinking that much?"

"The Queen has not intimated to me her opinion on the matter," he sat back.

"I'd think that she would, considering your relationship now," Jon smiled. "When I first met you, you were a miserable, sarcastic man. You aren't so much anymore."

Tyrion flashed a quick smile. "I am a miserable and sarcastic man still, Jon. Don't let my love fool you."

"You don't seem too miserable to me."

"That's because you aren't looking closely. Shocking, really. It's in plain enough sight. I am a dwarf still. That is reason enough to be miserable."

Jon sighed. "You have a lot…you're just stubborn…"

"As are you, Your Grace. You are determined to allow yourself to remain sad. It's almost as though you enjoy it," he stared at the King.

"I don't," Jon protested softly. "It's just…"

"Who am I to judge, though, Jon? I understand well enough," he poured wine into a goblet, then one for Jon, and handed it to him. "Our Queen proposed marriage to me, and I have not yet answered her."

"What are you waiting for?" he asked, sipping.

"I could ask the same of you," Tyrion cocked a brow.

"It's different. Sansa…she's different."

"From?"

"From…" everyone, really. "Our situations are not the same."

"We both of us are our own worst enemy," he sighed, sitting back. And Tyrion looked into the fire. He sighed…

"What are you thinking?"

"I am thinking that there should be a way to ensure our mutual happiness. To get ourselves out of the rut we find ourselves in."

Jon looked at the fire now…

"What if we set ourselves a time? What if we promise that we shall act before the litter leaves Winterfell?" Tyrion looked at Jon. "And if one of us does not…then…"

"Then…I'll tell Daenerys that you'll marry her."

"And I shall tell Sansa that you love her."

And the thought of anyone besides himself telling Sansa of his heart was repugnant to him. "How long will you be at Winterfell?"

"Well, it depends. But likely not more than a few days."

Jon nodded.

"Have we an agreement, then?"

He sighed. "We do."

"Excellent," and he drained his goblet, and slid off the chair. "Have a good night, Jon Targaryen, King of the North," and Tyrion left him there.

Jon sat back. He wasn't sure how he liked that name…indeed, if he liked it at all. Targaryen…the name had been something of a curse…it had been spoken like a curse when he was a child.

He drank the wine and stood. Nothing was as it seemed. His entire life had been a misunderstanding and a secret.

What did that mean for him?

Maybe nothing. Did it matter?

He turned and walked down the hall toward the Lord Commander's quarters, and as he walked, he passed Sansa's room…

…and paused a moment, placing a finger to the door.

Jon quickly walked on, and into his room next to the window at the end of the hall. He had not slept long in the Lord Commander's room, and was not about to now, with him so recently dead, and no one yet named.

He went in and sat on the bed, a heavy sigh slipping through his lips.

He took off his fur and some outer clothing and laid back into the bed.

 _The air was glowing softly. He didn't recognize the place, he had never been here before. He looked around for some indication of where he might be…_

 _There was a soft breeze._

 _And in the distance, there was Sansa, her long auburn hair blowing behind her. She was facing a sea, high atop a precipice._

 _He tried to call to her, but he couldn't make a sound._

 _So he approached her._

 _And she was staring into the distance._

 _He stood next to her._

 _"_ _I know what you're thinking," she said._

 _He looked at her, still unable to speak._

 _"_ _You're thinking that I'd never love you."_

 _His heart leaped into his throat; still his voice would not yield._

 _"_ _You're wrong," she turned to face him._

 _And now he saw that she had no clothes on._

 _His gaze fell, then quickly he looked at her eyes once more, embarrassed._

 _"_ _But you're right about some things, Jon Snow."_

 _And he thought he liked the sound of his name._

 _Sansa smiled a bit, then turned, and dove from the cliff into the sea._

 _"_ _Sansa!" he yelled, finding his voice. He panicked…she was there, in the sea, swimming away from him. He turned, thinking that he needed to go after her, but not knowing how…_

 _Desperate, he dove in after her, landing in the water, quite warm. He swam in the direction he had seen Sansa swim…_

 _…_ _and it was tough going. He was getting tired._

 _And soon there was a cave just ahead. He swam inside of it._

 _…_ _and there was Sansa standing in the cave, in the middle of a pool. There was light feathering in from above, cascading down upon her, illuminating her silhouette in soft hues. She was smiling._

 _He pulled himself onto the shore and stood. "You…" he began._

 _"_ _You took a while."_

 _"_ _I tried…"_

 _Sansa walked toward him. "You didn't try, Jon."_

 _"_ _I did," he sad breathlessly._

 _"_ _Think about what you're saying," she reached him, then took his hand. She placed his palm on her breast, right at her heart. "If you were trying, you wouldn't doubt," she kissed him softly._

 _…_ _and he wanted to grab her, to pull her to the floor of the cave…_

 _But he opened his eyes, and she was gone. "Sansa?" he called._

 _"_ _Jon Snow."_

 _"_ _Ygritte," he breathed._

 _She walked toward him, her furs thick and white. "You need to let go, Jon Snow."_

 _"_ _Of what?"_

 _"_ _Everything. I'm dead. Jon Snow is dead. Now you need to get living," she smiled._

 _"_ _I don't…I don't know how…"_

 _"'_ _course you don't," she kissed his cheek. "But you do," and she turned. "I wanted to stay here forever…I wanted to never leave."_

 _He looked around and saw that they were in_ ** _the_** _cave. "I didn't want to leave, either."_

 _"_ _No. But responsibility made you leave," she turned once more facing him, then began to back away. "…and now it's keeping you once more. Let go of it, Jon Snow."_

 _He closed his eyes once more…and when he opened them, he was alone. He turned. He was cold._

Jon opened his eyes, and noticed that he wasn't covered.

And he was at Castle Black.

And he was Jon Targaryen.

He sat up and looked out of the window…it was very slightly grey. Morning, though early still. He swung his feet to the floor…his head hanging. He felt exhausted…the dream was taxing. He'd need to prepare for the journey. They'd be leaving in a few hours.

* * *

Sansa was folding the few items she had brought, feeling numb. She had not slept well, wrought with dreams and frequent waking.

She closed the bag and left the room, eager to leave Castle Black and go home.

Sansa walked to the courtyard where the calvary was waiting, and smiled at them all. "Where is the King?"

"He hasn't arrived yet, M'Lady. He sent word he was behind his time."

She nodded. "Let's away. King Sn…" she stopped herself. She didn't want to confuse the men, but didn't want to misspeak, either. "Our King will be following in a bit," she was anxious to get going.

Sansa kept well away of the main line of marchers, knowing full well that they'd need to stop for a few hours before finally arriving at Winterfell, and that it was possible that she'd meet Jon there.

She had no idea what she would say to him.

He was her cousin…he was a Targaryen. She was deeply, deeply confused. And part of her wanted to just run and never look back, because she felt as though she was very much in love with him.

And that terrified her.

She heard someone calling her name, and she turned.

"Shall we stop here, M'Lady? It's a good five or six more hours until we reach Winterfell, and the Queen sent a raven a bit ago saying they had left."

A raven. No one had told her. She looked around, and saw that this was likely where they would stop as well…

Nearly half way.

"Let's walk another hour, and then stop," she said, hoping to avoid the others.

The general nodded confusedly, but yelled that they were to keep going.

She sighed some relief.

On they went, and Sansa was deep in thought. They stopped for camp, and she aided the women as they set the things for the cold night falling.

Day light lasted now but a few hours. They would rise when it was dark still, and likely reach Winterfell in the heaviest part of night.

It didn't matter, she thought. Home was home, and she was more than eager to arrive. She undressed as much as possible and climbed into her cot, listening to the men laughing and drinking by the fire.

She pulled her covers up to her chin and closed her eyes.

 _"_ _Sansa…"_

 _Her eyes were heavy, but she opened them. "Jon?"_

 _"_ _Why did you ride so far ahead?"_

 _She felt the cot dip, and she sat up, pulling the blanket with her. "What are you doing?"_

 _"_ _You're cross."_

 _Sansa swallowed. "Not cross, no…"_

 _"_ _Then what? You're running from me."_

 _She shrugged. "I…"_

 _His look was deliberate and somewhat fierce._

 _"_ _I'm…scared."_

 _"_ _Of? Not me…" he sounded hurt._

 _"_ _No. Not really."_

 _"_ _Then what?"_

 _She couldn't articulate her concern adequately. "I'm just…scared. Of everything, really. And you…you aren't my brother."_

 _"_ _So that means I'm unsafe?"_

 _"_ _It means we aren't siblings."_

 _Jon nodded._

 _There was a red glow outside of the tent. "It's getting light outside," she whispered._

 _And she felt him nearer. "Sansa…"_

 _"_ _I can't."_

 _"_ _Why?"_

 _She looked at him…and she knew why. It was because it was now possible. And everything she had wanted had turned out badly…she had wanted a King, and he was a beast. She had wanted a husband, and he was a monster. She wanted to trust…so badly…but she was afraid. She pulled her knees up to her chin, feeling small and silly. Jon being her cousin had changed how she viewed him, it made everything more real…_

…more real.

Sansa opened her eyes. It was possible…this thing that she thought that she wanted. It had become possible, with the knowledge that Jon was her cousin.

She sat up and decided to get dressed…she was tired still, but she couldn't lie there, and they would likely be leaving soon, anyway.

She pulled on what clothing she could, tied her boots, and left the tent. Sansa pulled her hood up against the fierce cold and walked.

There was a glen ahead, the trees were white and heavy with snow. Her footfalls were soft and almost silent…as everything was, with the snow being a muffler of sound, blanketing the landscape.

She trudged on, not knowing where she was going.

She was the last Stark child. The last of Eddard's children. She knew not where Arya was…

She had lost two brothers yesterday.

And the weight of it pressed on her shoulders.

There was a clearing ahead…a frozen lake.

She had been here, long ago, with her father. She hadn't recognized it without its summer color.

Sansa smiled small, then walked toward the lip of the ice.

She sighed. The dull grey of the sky was fading, and there was a red hue to the sky on the horizon…dawn.

She looked around.

And there was Jon, just a few yards from her, looking at her.

She swallowed, turning.

"Hello, Sansa."

She smiled. . .

…she wanted to go to him…

…and she did…

Sansa walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek on his shoulder.


	14. Chapter 14

_So this is about a page shorter than is my norm. Apologies for that._

 _I hope to finish the last chapter this week._

* * *

He was holding her close, and wanted to hold her closer. Her breath was soft, and he felt himself rocking her slightly in his arms. It was lovely. "Sansa," he whispered.

She pulled away, drawing a deep breath. "It's been a time, these past few days."

"It has."

She couldn't look at him. "I'm afraid."

"What of?"

"Of…" she struggled to put her feelings into words. "Of everything being all right. Because it never will," and now she looked at him. "I've seen so much, been through…" she swallowed. "I don't mean to say that you haven't, but I…I don't know how to trust," her gaze fell once more.

"You don't trust me?"

"I don't know," she cried. "I don't know anything. I don't know what I want, what to do…I barely know who I am…I just don't want to be afraid, but it's all I know…"

"You're a strong person, Sansa. Stronger than you give yourself credit for…so many people would never have survived what you did," he took her hand. "I promised you that I'd never hurt you. I meant that."

"You kissed me," she whispered.

"I did," and he was uncertain how to proceed, since much had happened in the interim.

"…and…?"

"And what?" he dropped her hand.

"Do you think that that wouldn't confuse me? Hurt me, even?"

"Did I hurt you?" he breathed.

She shook her head…"No…" and it was a bit of a wail.

"Tell me what's wrong, Sansa…" he couldn't bear this.

She looked at him, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so confused, Jon! I don't know…I don't know what to do. I want…" she swallowed. "I want…this…" she pointed between the two of them, and his heart was in his throat. "But I'm afraid. And I don't know if it's the right thing…"

"You care for me, then?"

"Of course I do. But I think it's wrong…I'm wrong."

"It can't be," he smiled, cupping her face. "This isn't wrong Sansa…this is…" he longed to kiss her…"This is our fate."

"I'm tainted. I'm no good," she backed away. "I need to be alone," she stepped away, still looking at him.

"Does it not matter to you that I'm in love with you?" he said it. Out loud. And a great albatross was lifted…

"Take it back," she said, her voice cracking.

"I won't. It's the truth. And you care for me…" he advanced. "I love you, Sansa. As a man, not your brother, not your cousin. And no matter what, nothing will change that."

She blanched, then turned away and went back to her horse.

Jon was left there, his booted feet deep in snow.

* * *

He hung back a bit, considering what to do. He rather felt like abandoning the North and riding off…no direction known. He felt as though everything was black. The long night was descending, and the cold of winter would be unrelenting.

And he was Targaryen.

And the nephew of the Queen.

And he was in love with his cousin.

What a mess.

She did not reciprocate…not enough, anyway. Not enough.

"King Jon!" called a voice…he looked, and there was Tyrion Lannister.

He nodded, then making the decision there on the spot, went to retrieve his horse. He rode up to the Hand, and said, "She doesn't love me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I told her. And she doesn't love me."

"Impossible," Tyrion gasped.

"What? That she doesn't reciprocate or that you are wrong?"

"Both. It's unfathomable."

Jon snickered. "Well, there's a first time for everything, I suppose."

"What nonsense. First time for me being wrong? I won't have it, Jon Targaryen. You must go right this. What did you say?"

"I told her that I loved her. And she told me that she was afraid."

Tyrion laughed. "And that is your estimation of a rejection? My dear man, if that was my measure, I'd be a virgin."

And Jon laughed. "But I can't make her _unafraid_. I don't know how…"

Tyrion was looking at him crookedly, then stared off into the distance. "Give me the night. I'll set this to right."

* * *

The towers of Winterfell rose before her as she kicked her horse and galloped to the place. She was anxious to get inside and hide.

No. Not hide.

Get ready.

For the feast.

Sansa hurried up to her quarters and closed the door. She was breathing hard. She would rest and collect herself before she got ready. That might calm her.

But her rest was dream ridden and upsetting…there were long corridors and hollow halls. She was lost and yet not. It was cold and hard, and she was afraid…

Her eyes opened and her hands were shaking. She sat up and thought that she should prepare for the feast that was surely being prepared…

* * *

Sansa was watching Daenerys and Tyrion sitting next to one another, sipping wine. She thought that he had better give it up soon, the Queen will not want a drunkard for a partner. Her gaze fell and she smiled.

Not once did she look for Jon, nor did she hear his voice to cause her head to turn. And she was rather happy for it.

She sipped and looked at the music began to play soft at first, then rise in cadence.

Sansa rose and took her cup with her, not wanting to dance, nor be the object of gazes. She rather wanted to go to bed.

She went to an alcove, the moonlight in full bloom, and she looked out. The snow was thick and white.

"You left the party."

Sansa turned quickly, and saw a smiling Queen looking at her. "I did," and she cleared her throat.

"Why?" and she took a step toward her.

"I am not in the mood."

"Not in the mood for food, drink, and dance?"

Sansa smirked. "I am tired after the long journey from Castle Black."

"Yes," Dany said. "It was an arduous one," and she came closer, looking into the night. "But there is a time for merriment," she looked at Sansa. "And I should think that now is an apt time."

"You are a persistent Queen," she backed up. "But I am tired."

"You are avoiding," Daenerys smiled. "Someone."

Her heart fell. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do, Lady Stark. You are not dull, you know precisely of what I speak."

Sansa could feel her face fall, her color leaving.

"Come. You care for him."

Her eyes snapped to the Queen's.

"You do. It's written all over your face. And his," she added knowingly.

Her eyes grew wide. "But he's…"

"Your cousin. And? That is permitted in Westeros."

"What do you mean? We are…"

"Allowed to love one another. And I suggest you get on with it, Lady Stark. He appears to be in much pain…" she turned away.

"Would it not be improper? Would it not be forbidden?"

"No," Daenerys said simply.

Sansa could feel the tears burn the back of her eyes. "But…" her voice cracked…"But I'm so… _afraid_ …"

"Of?"

She shook her head and swallowed. "Everything. Just everything…I cannot allow this to happen. My love…" she was going to say it. "It's like poison."

"What do you mean?" the Queen sounded concerned.

"I am not allowed to love…the gods won't allow it…" she cried softly. "Joffrey was a villain. Ramsay was a monster. Everyone who I was promised to…they were awful. And to survive, I decided to abandon it. And I'm afraid…I don't want Jon to become what they were, or that _I_ make him a monster…what if it's _me_ …?"

"Sansa…" Daenerys went to her and held her hands. "You are a lovely woman, and nothing is keeping you from happiness but yourself. King Targaryen loves you. I see it, both in him and in you. Go to him…"

…and she saw him across the room.

* * *

"You don't drink enough," Tyrion sipped long.

"No? How much should I drink?"

"More."

Jon smiled. "I might start."

"That's what I like to hear!" Tyrion poured some wine into a goblet, then handed it to Jon. "Come. Your melancholy is contagious…and I won't have it. We have a wager."

"Forget my part, Lord Tyrion. I've lost," and he drank deeply.

He sighed. "Now, we are speaking nonsense. I need to supply the Queen with an answer."

"So tell her. I told Sansa, and she left me there in the snow."

Tyrion frowned. "This is not how I foresaw these events."

"No? Well…perhaps you ought to rethink…"

"Or, perhaps you should begin to think afresh," he nodded toward the archway.

Jon was looking at him, then lifted his gaze to the place Tyrion indicated.

And Sansa was standing there, looking at him.

He put his drink down, never leaving her face…

…and Sansa began to walk toward him…and the scene slowed…people began to look at them. He felt his heart begin to pound. He was uncertain whether he wanted to move…

But he did.

And he reached her…the room softly lit…the sounds slowing…

And he cupped her face. "Sansa…" he whispered.

And she claimed his mouth.

It was warm, and nothing was heard…the lovers were oblivious to all but one another…

And when he pulled himself away…

Sansa was smiling.


	15. Chapter 15

_Please be aware: sexually explicit stuff following._

* * *

Nothing needed to be said, and she kissed him again.

His heart was suddenly light, his care gone.

…they heard clapping from behind them, and Jon pulled away, looking Tyrion, who was smiling and clapping. "Cheers!" he called, raising his goblet.

The King of the North smiled and nodded, then looked around at the hall; people were smiling and laughing, all seemed to be happy at this turn.

Sansa looked back at Daenerys, who was smiling as well. Her hands, she felt, were trembling. "Jon," she whispered, looking back at him.

"Let's go," his voice was rough, and pulled her toward him, beckoning her to follow.

They walked toward the King's chambers, her hesitation evident enough. "Jon…" she breathed.

He stopped. "We needn't do anything you're uncomfortable with," he said softly, not looking at her.

She froze. She believed him. "All right."

And they went to his bedroom, he opened the door.

It was dark inside, and she went to light the hearth. "I'm sorry," she said.

"What for?"

And now she looked at him. "For…for not believing you. For holding you at bay. I wasted time…"

"Sansa, you thought that I was your brother. It would have been more than improper," he replied, shaking his head.

She looked down.

"I love you, you know," he said.

And she felt the tears stinging…"I know," she managed. "And I love you," she said. She said it, out loud.

He staggered out a breath, wanting to hold her. It was too much, being allowed to love her without fear of backlash. Fear of scorn. "Sansa…could we…lie down. I want to be close to you…we needn't…"

"I'll lie next to you, Jon," she interrupted. "But that's all…just now," she went to the window and took her overclothes off. She contemplated taking more off, but decided not to. She wasn't ready just yet.

Jon watched her, and it was glorious to not feel any guilt surrounding his gaze. He was free to look at the woman he loved. He took some of the heavy clothes off he wore, and ran a hand through his hair. Jon climbed into his bed and looked hesitantly over at Sansa. "It's comfortable," he smiled.

She nodded, then climbed in next to him, pulling the covers up close.

His back was resting against the headboard, and he sighed. He should not press the matter…he had promised her.

But he had rather hoped that she would at least be comfortable with having him hold her.

No matter. She was here. She loved him. That would be enough for now…

…and he slid under the blankets. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, looking up at the ceiling.

"You are?" there was a hint of a smile in his voice.

"Yes."

He sighed…there was the soft hum of the music in the distance. He wondered idly at the revelers and what they were doing…

And he thought that none of them could be as content as he was at that moment.

Jon Snow closed his eyes, thinking of that name he had so recently shed without much ceremony or meaning.

And he thought that Targaryen would be a fine name to adopt.

As fine as any.

…Sansa heard his breathing slow…

She swallowed.

She was sleeping next to him, her cousin, not her brother. She was thinking that she was happy.

Thinking is much different from feeling, though.

She _should_ be happy.

She had traveled far to reach this point. Too far, in fact.

Sansa turned her head and faced the window. She could see the torches' light illuminating the snow on the hills in the distance. It glowed.

She sat up and looked around the room…the room once inhabited by her parents. She wondered what Catelyn would say now. Would she be happy for her or would she be disappointed in her heart?

She thought that Ned wouldn't care. As long as she was happy.

…and after all of her pining for a Prince, she found herself in bed with a King.

Sansa no longer cared as much for titles. She no longer wanted finery. She wanted only peace…to live her life in Winterfell…

…with Jon.

She smiled, and looked at him sleeping.

What a turn! To think, not so long ago, she was a prisoner here. She belonged to a monster.

…and before that, on the run from the Lannister's.

…married to Tyrion.

…betrothed to Joffrey.

…here, a child, dreaming of King's Landing and all that it promised. Naive and young, she yearned to be the best Princess the Seven had seen.

And now, she was in bed with her cousin, looking at the snow.

And there was no place she'd rather be…

The embers had long since burned their last.

* * *

The room had grown slightly cold…the chill not permeating, but real and brittle. The castle was silent…the reverie long since dead.

And Jon Targaryen opened his eyes.

Yes, she was there but yet; he had not dreamed it.

Her breath was soft, and she was curled against herself, facing him. Jon sat up, deciding to light the hearth once more.

More wood would need to be harvested in order to be adequately prepared for the winter.

His feet hit the cold floor and he padded over to the hearth, striking the flint a few times into the tinder before a spark was lit. He stood and rubbed his arms, waiting for the fire to warm him.

Soon, the blaze caught and he turned from the hearth.

Sansa was awake, and she was watching him.

He didn't say anything, but swallowed, and offered her a soft smile.

She sat up, and returned the smile. "I was raped."

He nodded. "I know."

"I was raped…by my husband…" she continued. "And I lived in constant fear in this place…my home."

He walked over to her and sat next to her on the bed, taking her hand. "I'd never do that to you."

A tear slid down her cheek, and her gaze fell. Sansa nodded. "I believe you."

He hesitated…then reached for her, and brushed the tear from her face. "I'm sorry that you suffered."

She looked and him, and laughed a touch. "You aren't without your pain."

"No…but I have some fond memories of love. It seems as though life has denied you that," and his hand fell.

Sansa shrugged. "Yes, that's true."

"And it means that you're afraid of me," he said softly.

"Not you, yourself…"

"As good as."

She swallowed. He was right. And she started to cry in earnest. "I don't want to be," she sobbed.

His mind was racing…should he comfort her…? Jon reached for her, and pulled her toward him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. "Shh…Sansa…it'll be all right…"

Sansa was gripping onto his shirt, balled into her fist, as though holding on was the only thing she had left. It was going to be all right…it's going to be all right…"I love you," she whispered.

…and his heart soared…he pulled away slightly…looked down at her.

And he claimed her mouth softly.

Sansa felt the salt of her tears mingle with his lips, and she responded. She needed to overcome her trepidation her mind clung to. She needed to set herself free…

…and Jon was drowning in the unprecedented glee he was experiencing…he couldn't remember ever being this happy. Even with Ygritte, he felt full the knowledge that he was being dishonest. And he had been so prone to melancholy regarding his family…

But he knew who he was. He knew what he wanted, and for the first time in his life, he was getting it.

He pushed her slowly back into the bed, not looking at her response yet, for he truly wanted only to kiss her.

At least now.

And he did, and it was wonderful bliss. To feel her respond with some want was more than he could have hoped for.

Sansa allowed herself to lose herself, and not caring any longer, began to pull Jon's shirt off.

He stopped. "Are you sure?" he took her hand. Her eyes were locked on his. She nodded. And she pulled it over his head. "I promise…I won't hurt you. And if you're at any point uncomfortable…"

She interrupted him with another kiss.

And he rolled on top of her.

Sansa was still mostly clothed, and he had little experience with undressing a woman. He wanted merely to tear them from her person…

She sat up, bringing him with her, and began to take off her clothes.

Jon pulled off his pants, and swallowed, realizing that they were both naked then. His heart was racing. "We should go slowly," he whispered.

She nodded, only slightly aware of her body, yet keenly aware of it. She pulled him closer, then fixed her legs around his waist, pulling him…guiding him…

He wanted to be cautious, he wanted her to want it…

And in he slid.

He moved very slowly, his breath staggered…and he looked at her, wanting only to see her happy, wanting her to want this.

Sansa felt him fill her.

She moaned with his movement.

And he was enticed, and moved a bit quicker.

He was going to climax…he needed to slow.

"Sansa…stop…"

"I don't want to," she looked at him, writhing beneath him.

"But…" his eyes closed, wanting to have her climax…to give her that…and the thought made him harder.

He pulled out, and began trailing kisses down her torso…Sansa's head falling back…he reached her core, and kissed it softly. She cooed her pleasure. And he began to lick and suck on her pulsing sex, and she experienced a feeling she had heretofore never had. Her entire body went warm…she felt as though she had no control over anything she was feeling.

He siphoned her from her depths, and she spilled herself out. Her head was spinning, she couldn't feel her legs. "Jon…"

He was hovering above her, panting and ready to burst himself. "Are you all right?" he asked a third time.

"What?" she replied, delirious.

He smiled, nuzzling her neck, slipping back in.

And he moved…he licked her nipple…and he filled her.

"Sansa," he breathed. "You are…" and he rolled off of her. "Incredible and beautiful…" his chest was heaving.

She was smiling and she looked over to him. "It was never like that before."

"No," he looked over.

"Was it like that with Ygritte?"

He swallowed. "No," he replied, somewhat small.

Sansa turned on her side. "I want you to know that that was difficult for me."

He brushed her hair away. "I know."

…"But I'm so glad that we did," and she kissed him.

* * *

 **One Year Later...**

The chill was heavy, laden with moisture that was indicative of spring.

Bran had been right. Winter would not be long.

Sansa was standing on the battlements of Winterfell, her hand resting on her swollen belly. She was Lady of Winterfell. Arya had come home.

And she and Jon had been married just under a year ago.

The baby would be born soon.

It was said to be a boy.

Her breath misted in front of her…

"You were always beautiful."

Sansa smiled. Arya. "Beauty doesn't last," and she looked at her sister.

"No. Youth leaves the lucky," she stood next to her, peering over the wall.

Sansa nodded. "This bundle will remind us of the importance of life and family."

"Winter is leaving," came Jon's voice.

He'd always be Jon to her.

She smiled. "Spring…it'll usher in the Prince of the North."

He walked over to them both. "I hear that Queen Daenerys just gave birth to a daughter. They named her Rhaella Joanna."

"Your aunt will want them to meet."

"They shall," he touched her belly.

"I'll teach him to fight," Arya said. "But I'll be in the room with you, Sansa, when he arrives," she smiled and turned and left.

"Changes," she said to that.

He took her hand. "It's cold yet. Let's get you by the fire," he squeezed her hand, then led her inside…

…and he locked the door behind them.

* * *

 _Finis! Thanks for sticking with this!_


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